Easter Flowers, Greek Feasts, Seaside Candles and Poetry…

by janice on April 4, 2010

easter bouquet 2

Your job, then, should you choose to accept it, is to keep searching for the metaphors, rituals and teachers that will help you move ever closer to divinity. The Yogic scriptures say that God responds to the sacred prayers and efforts of human beings in any way whatsoever that mortals choose to worship — just so long as those prayers are sincere. As one line from the Upanishads sugests: “People follow different paths, straight or crooked, according to their temperament, depending on which they consider best, or most apropriate — and all reach You, just as rivers enter the ocean.” ~ Elizabeth Gilbert

Happy Easter! (…or Happy Easter week if you took a break and are reading this a few days after Easter!)

While  I was out shopping for ingredients for a special feast – Easter day and a family birthday – I saw those flowers above and melted. I’ve been trying, unsuccessfully for the most part, to cut down on caffeine and wine, so flowers have been my replacement drug of choice. Oh how I wish you could stick your face in these and smell the jonquils; they’re so heady it’s like drinking in  fragrance and they make you raise your shoulders with breathing them in then you sigh out pure bliss…

It’s been a funny old Easter this year. When Greek Orthodox Easter and western Easter fall on the same day, it means that my kids’ candles and presents, sent by godparents in Greece, arrive at the same time as their chocolate Easter eggs from grandparents here. We normally have to have two celebrations. Today’s also a family member’s birthday, yet one of my kids is away on a special county-level music course, an honour and experience we were loathe to ruin by insisting on an Easter weekend spent together. I think God would smile at the sound of children celebrating the resurrection with choral harmonies, triumphant brass bands and soaring strings.

0904100002We have a feast on Easter day, with red  boiled eggs, traditionally dyed and decorated on the Thursday before Easter, and all kinds of salads and a roast. I miss being in Greece on the Friday before Easter as that’s when church bells toll mournfully, the whole day long, on every island and in every village, town and city. I also miss being part of Anástasi  – the Resurrection – on the Saturday night.

At midnight, the first few candles in each church are lit from the holy flame then one worshipper ignites a neighbour’s candle with love and chanted blessings – Christ is risen, truly risen – until everyone’s taper is lit. Happy crowds carrying  flickering candles walk home from church, like riversrust seaside candle of light winding through the darkness while fireworks explode into dazzling bouquets above their heads in a vast black velvet sky.  It’s good luck if you manage to keep a candle lit all the way home then mark the sign of the cross with smoke on the lintel above the front door as a blessing to last the whole year.

pink seaside Easter candleMy kids’ godmothers – who live in different seaside towns and have no contact with each other – both sent them beautiful seaside themed candles that match their rooms.

I’d like to leave you today with one of my favourite poems in the whole world, ee cummings’ i thank you God…

As I said in my post on April 12th last year, “I love the way ee cummings’s mind moves. I love the way he makes me explore the possibilities of my own language, searching for meanings in what’s not there and the why and the where of what is there. I love his delight in words, letters, syntax, symbols and sound and the way he expresses life and love.”  

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Janice
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I’m celebrating my blog birthday by reminiscing!

This time last year, I posted….

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Some Haiku How to’s

by janice on March 31, 2010

robin eating

Last year, I wrote a spontaneous post called  Haiku: Sharing Essence, Shedding Skins, which I loved. Last week, in Why Haiku? we looked at why writing haiku is a good idea. We also looked briefly at the content they cover and their effects on the reader and writer. (Haiku is both a plural word and a singular, by the way.)

Today, I’ll be giving you some brief guidelines on how to write haiku. Why brief? Firstly, there are plenty of specialist haiku sites out there, and haiku experts and authors.  Secondly, I suspect no poet enjoys being told what’s ‘right’ and ‘wrong’, and I believe the most important thing is the pleasure you get from writing.

Striving to write haiku, within the traditional guidelines, has given me a great deal of pleasure and repays the effort, even though most of my poems rarely make it into the realms of ‘proper’ haiku. That’s why my posts about haiku have been informative as well as personal; I’d like you to discover that joy, too, if you haven’t already.

So, here are a few tips.

  • get used to carrying a notebook and jotting down life-sketches
  • contemplate nature and objects so you can describe them objectively
  • immerse yourself and stay centered in the NOW, the present
  • become one with nature and empathise
  • recollect your thoughts and recreate them in silence and solitude
  • don’t attribute human qualities to nature; describe it as it is. (Tricky, this one, as vivid verbs and participles often wander into anthropomorphosis – see, I just did it!)
  • if you use adjectives and adverbs, make sure they vivify
  • make every word and syllable work hard
  • use verbs in the present tense
  • suggest the emotional reaction you had during your haiku moment
  • use normal, common language; try and get your English as natural and ‘unpoetic’ as possible
  • avoid end rhyme
  • life is the essence of haiku; it doesn’t have to be beautiful
  • don’t be obscure; avoid personal symbolism and intellectual allusions (there’s a lot of debate about this last one, because of how much homage goes on)
  • avoid poeticism and figurative language if you can; haiku are immediate
  • work on each poem till you’re sure the reader will feel what you felt
  • haiku aren’t about you being clever;  be as ‘invisible’ as you can so there’s nothing to detract from the experience you’re recreating
  • the best haiku are written by those folk whose minds are contemplative, serene and calm; they are the people whose capacity for mental stillness is best able to recreate the experience
  • use words which indicate the elements or the seasons (kigo); they give universal breadth and depth. The Japanese have plants, animals and elements that indicate the seasons and special times of the year. For example, the phrase kaze no kaori, ‘wind scent’, is a season word representing (Japanese) summer – May, June and July. There’s an extensive list at the back of William Higginson’s book, The Haiku Handbook -25th Anniversary Edition: How to Write, Teach, and Appreciate Haiku

Haiku Form

Ah, …eventually, you sigh…here we go…

Haiku don’t have to be in three lines of 5, 7 and 5 syllables respectively. Folk did this originally, thinking it was the best way to represent Japanese syllables, or onji, which are shorter and more stable in their length than English syllables; English syllables vary in the length of time it takes to pronounce them. (Compare ‘ease’ with the ‘ed’ at the end of ’started’.)

Personally, I love the 5-7-5 structure; I enjoy trying to corral my thoughts into a restriction that makes my tapping fingers feel like accomplices. And I suspect hundreds of thousands of non-Japanese folk feel the same. Cor van den Heuvel, a respected expert and haiku poet, says this in The Haiku Anthology

Though a few poets still write in the 5-7-5 syllable form, this form is now mostly written by schoolchildren as an exercise to learn how to count syllables, by beginners who know little about the true essence of haiku, or by those who just like to have a strict form with which to practice.

I guess that puts me in his third category. However, having taught haiku both in classrooms full of children, and to foreign adults learning English, I must admit I find their enthusiasm and beginners’ minds – and often their results – more full of haiku essence than the work of some élitist, haiku experts.

English haiku often have 7 accented syllables with a syllable total -  including unaccented syllables – of  about 12. Most experts agree that haiku shouldn’t have more than 17 syllables.

You don’t even need to have three lines…

at dusk hot water from the hose                      ~ Marlene Mountain

…although many haiku do have a structure of three lines with a  2 -3 – 2  sequence of stressed syllables.

On néaring the súrf,
évery fóotprint  becómes
thát of the séa…                                       ~ James W. Hackett

What you do need are two rhythmically balanced sections and a cutting word (kireji) or some kind of punctuation or natural break between them. Higginson suggests that if you leave a major grammatical pause between the 2nd and 3rd stressed syllables or between the 5th and 6th stressed syllables, it provides the sense of division created by the Japanese kireji.

In these examples, can you feel that break, that pause that heralds the moment of altered perception, or signals that there’s a universal message or deeper truth in the emotion conveyed by the juxtaposition of the images?

The names of the dead
sinking deeper and deeper
into the red leaves                               ~ Eric Amann

a bike in the grass
one wheel slowly turning -
summer afternoon                               ~ Lee Gurga

The Gurga poem makes me feel the essence of summer heat and fields and childhood and wide open spaces. I feel the presence of someone, maybe a child, who has tossed down the bike and just left the shot, maybe in pursuit of the next pleasure, as we pan in on the still spinning wheel; it suggests to me how childhood is gone in an instant, how that wheel spins and then slowly comes to a halt and how precious it is to take it all in and savour it while we have the chance. But that’s just my gut feeling.

I hope this mini-series has heightened the pleasure you get from reading and writing haiku. If you’re inspired to write haiku or any kind of haiku inspired short poems over the spring break, you know you’re always welcome to share them with us here.

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I’m celebrating my blog birthday by reminiscing!

This week last year, I posted….

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A Patchwork Post: Quote-hunting, My Bloggling’s Birthday…and Cake!

by janice on March 29, 2010

cake (laptop shaped)

I logged on to post my final haiku instalment, then suddenly realised what the date was. It’s been a year exactly since the official launch of Sharing the Journey! And yes, that is a photo of a REAL cake, by someone called Zhanna in St Petersburg.

I’ve had a rich, gratifying year full of connection, friendship, learning and inspiration. Curiously, though, my stats declare that in some ways, it’s all been downhill since that first day; because I launched with a simultaneous guest post over at Write to Done, Zen Habits’ sister blog, I got hundreds of hits in a few hours, and have never had that many since! That was probably my first lesson in blogging – don’t get obsessed with statistics or you’ll get depressed and fry your brain!

Since then, I’ve learned that I am what  I call a “deciduous blogger”. I need periods of dormancy so I can grow and blossom. I also need frequent integrity checks, as there are aspects of the blogging world that don’t sit well with me. Here’s how I expressed it in my post Guest House:

Writing helps the soul breathe, but blogging is a different beast. It  makes me feel like a madwoman most days, swinging between highs of connection, learning, new friendships and self expression and lows of paranoia, frustration, exhaustion and queasiness at the underlying hypocrisy and unmentioned stalking and plunder that goes on in the shadows.

Some days I gush, full of the overflowing inspiration I feel the need to share, grateful for the gift of every single page view or subscription; some days I long  to lash out and rant.

I relish our humanity – mine, yours and that blogger over there’s, the one who bugs us both. But I know, from living every detail of my journey, that I’m not positive every day, that I’ve needed my darkness to make me reach out for better days, like a plant craving the sun’s embrace. The huge discrepancy between my subscriber numbers and the comments boxes makes me wonder if I’ll ever learn enough in the silence between the comments to know what you want to read, what you’d like me to share.

One thing I do know, I appreciate you, for taking the time to come here and read. It’s all a writer really needs, that one-to one connection. Everything else is a bonus. I’ve cut and saved the rest of this draft to post later – it started to sound embarrassingly like a weepy, grateful Oscar acceptance speech – but for now, here’s the piece that marked the beginning of my journey.

Quote-Hunting: How to Improve your Writing and your Life

Big claim. How on earth can capturing quotes in a notebook improve our lives? I’m guessing you’re a book lover as well as a wordsmith. Or an avid reader of other people’s blogs? If we use our skills as quote-hunters with integrity, we can sharpen our writing and invite presence, openness, connection, focus and inspiration into everything we do.

Being open to inspiration and guidance

As a writer, you should have a sticky soul; the act of continually taking things in should be as much a part of you as your hair color. ~ Elizabeth Berg

I never go out without a pen, a notebook and a book to read. When I read a book with a ‘quotebook’ and a pen handy, it’s a signal I send to myself and to the universe. It says “I’m open. I expect nothing, but I’m prepared to be moved, enlightened or entertained. I’m a student, ready and willing to learn from the lives and the wisdom of others.” In my Filofax, stuck on the fridge, pinned to my pinboard and incorporated into my art work, albums and blog, quotes serve as flashes of inspiration, mini mission statements and signposts to keep me on track. Dead poets become heroes, strangers become mentors.

Right in the middle of Barack Obama’s inauguration speech, I jotted down the words that became the header quote for a multi-threaded article I’d written about school decisions, coaching, my daughter and the new president, called Sharing the Journey. I’d been hunting for the right quote for hours and I felt like he was speaking to me directly when he said, “It is…the parent willing to nurture a child that will decide our fate.” It brought the whole piece together and set the tone.

Focus and attention

“You see, what catches our attention might be more than a coincidence – it might also be a potential incident of inspiration.” ~ Wayne Dyer

Using a quote by someone else can add freshness and a different perspective to what you’re expressing, like a photo used to illustrate a blog post. At the beginning of a piece, it can stimulate curiosity and provide a taste of
buttonswhat’s to come or it can highlight an important concept. In the middle of a piece, it can link sections or bind ideas like a ribbon around a bouquet.

Finding the perfect quote that illustrates several sentiments or pulls together a complex train of thought is similar to recognising one of life’s Aha! moments. It’s synchronicity’s way of helping us focus and pay attention. Highlighting sections of your own writing, either as a header or in a text box, can help clarify your aims, intensify your intention or mirror your message. We all have different ways of processing the world; it’s a sign of respect to others if we try and find a way to repackage what we’re saying in ways that resonate.

Connection, magical moments and collages

“Cling to simplicity, sincerity and the power of truth.” ~ from the I Ching

Our first instincts are often the ones that bypass our censors and cruel inner critics which is why many quotes become deeply personal and precious to us. They’re like messages sent from our own souls.

Every time you choose a quote that resonates with you, don’t stop to ask why; just write it down and keep it safe. Quotes are like photographs, snapshots of who you are, who you were. They’re music that moves you, lyrics that leave you scarred. They’re memories of a moment when you came upon someone else’s words and felt connected, not only to another human being, but to the moment, the thought and the feeling that overflowed from them and cried out to be heard. The ‘Me too!!’ or ‘That’s it exactly!!’ moment.

As writers, isn’t that what we want to achieve in our own work?

Being open to connecting with others in this way makes us more grateful and humble, more open as human beings, more able to create this kind of connection in our own writing. It’s our unique life experience and how we channel, choose and arrange the moments, the music and the words that makes us writers, creating collages that turn our lives into works of art – living, breathing works of art that we want to share with others.

(This piece appeared as a guest post in Write to Done . It was was adapted from my Coaching Moments article Treasure Hunting, which was edited by Linda Dessau and appeared in the March 2009 issue of VOICE.)

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Why Haiku?

by janice on March 24, 2010

phone photo of ducks 2Haiku happen all the time, wherever there are people who are in touch with the world of their senses, and with their own feeling response to it. ~ William J. Higginson

My attempts at writing haiku bring me a lot of pleasure. I love the intensity of the initial experience and the inner stillness, serenity and focused, centred composure required at the capturing stage. I love the restrictions of haiku and the way they comfort yet inspire me, and I love how the process reminds me to be aware of the beauty and ‘lifefulness’ in everything, from flowers and birds to cityscapes and domestic details.

I’ve read hundreds of haiku that are astonishingly beautiful in their simplicity and vast in their scope, like this one by Lee Gurga:

from house
to barn
the milky way

But in addition to the pleasure I’ve had in reading haiku, I discovered a while back that adopting a haiku mindset is a talisman against the stresses, anxieties and overwhelm that so often accompany western lifestyles. Writing haiku requires a level of engaged awareness in the present that wards off the fears and Shoulds and But what if…?’s that live in the future, and the grief, regrets and If only’s that so often haunt the past.

Writing haiku is also a wonderful way to journal, and our notebooks can provide rich material for inspiration or word gifts, or become a legacy for our loved ones.

Experimenting with haiku expanded my love of life and my awareness of the essence of every living thing, but learning to make word-sketches also improved my writing.

The following paragraph, taken from The Empty Jug, evolved from one of my attempts at haiku. In haiku, every syllable and the sound of every word earns its place. What you want to say has to be pared down, and every syllable justified. I wrote this haiku (the linked part shown in mauve) in response to a creative stimulus I gave folk on a haiku post last year. It was only when I read it that I realised how aptly it described my sense of isolation and my despair at being separated – by something unseen – from the inspiration I need to write and fill my life to overflowing.

I stood at the kitchen sink, robotically washing dishes. I paused, my gaze landing on a hand-painted jug on the window ledge, raindrops running down the glass. I clung to the sink with soapy hands, hunched forward, eyes clenched shut, terrified that I might miss another deadline, that I’d never have another moment of revelation, the inspiration that flows in and fills me up then spills over into my writing and my online coaching.

‘Proper’ haiku

As with all forms of poetry, there are divisions and differing beliefs among experts, with regard to form, subject manner and approach, but as a rough rule of thumb, when I say ‘traditional’ haiku, I mean those written by the Japanese grand masters, or written  by devotees who have studied the masters and are experts in Japanese culture, language and aesthetics. My personal favourite haiku were actually written by North Americans. I love how they took the ball and ran with it. I also love urban haiku, and the grey area where haiku meets senryu, the poetry that focuses on human nature.

Essence, awareness and compassion

A human being is part of the whole called by us the universe…a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts, and feelings, as separate from the rest — a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty. ~ Albert Einstein

Haiku, real haiku, help us see into the life of things, to become more spiritual, compassionate and aware. Traditionally, haiku are direct, sensuous and real, and they centre us in the eternal NOW, even if they also allude to a literary heritage or recognised seasonal representations. If we write a haiku, we don’t tell the reader how we felt, or  how they should feel, we simply paint the perception, in all its fresh immediacy, and let them experience it themselves. In haiku, something is what it is.

The aim of every haiku is to recreate the poet’s experience in the reader, and then ripple outwards like the ripples from a pebble in a pond, as the reader adds their own life experiences to the emotion conveyed by the poet. In some ways, the best haiku are invisible, because in reading them, we are taken directly to the emotion the poet was experiencing, and in that way are connected to something universal and eternal.

We write haiku to keenly perceive -  and then re-create  – what we experience in Nature;  in that way, our awareness is strengthened, and we are reminded that we are part of the life force that is in all things.  In traditional haiku, human nature is secondary to what’s referred to as Greater Nature.

Haiku are deceptively simple. Although writing them requires a sharp eye, an accute inner ear, deft use of simple but vivifying vocabulary and skillful juxtaposition of carefully chosen images, they’re not  full of poeticism, abstract anthropocentricity, intricate personal symbolism, figurative language, complex poetic devices or intellectual cleverness; nor are they puzzles or simply word games that seem like a great way to introduce beginners to poetry. For many people, haiku are a form of Zen meditation, a mindset and a way of experiencing life with heightened awareness, compassion and empathy for all creatures.

dead cat…
open mouthed
to the pouring rain                                          ~ Michael McClintock

In their purest form, they capture concisely, in a flash of awareness, the essence of something in Nature, or one of life’s fascinating dramas or everyday occurences.

at dusk hot water from the hose                      ~ Marlene Mountain

That one reminds me of how, in my friend’s seaside home in Greece, I always washed off the sea salt with an outdoor hose after swimming in the sea. The loops and coils of the hose lay spread out in the dusty yard all day, the water in them warming in the sun.

Haiku don’t have to describe the beautiful, but they do need to convey some kind of life essence.

The very best haiku alter our perceptions and change the way we see things.

On nearing the surf,
every footprint  becomes
that of the sea…                                       ~ James W. Hackett

They can also help us connect two seemingly disparate things and often seemlessly merge details with the universal.

The names of the dead
sinking deeper and deeper
into the red leaves

I love the poignancy of  this one by Eric Amann, and its gentle power to take us beyond the graveyard to issues of life, memory and death; nature and the passing of the seasons claim us all as equals in the end.

In the following poem, not only is the image beautiful, but when I read somewhere later that the author, Richard Wright  is an African American, it added an extra, though not necessary, dimension.

In the falling snow
A laughing boy holds out his palms
Until they are white

In writing haiku, we learn to love the details of our lives and treasure our own experiences as life-filled beings in the grand scheme of things.

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My next post will be focusing on the How (the form) of haiku and will probably present an analysis of a few of my favourite haiku before we have our next  wee poetry writing flurry!

Until then, here are a few places to read some wonderful haiku. Why don’t you share a few of your favourites with us and explain why they touched you.

  • Check ot a variety of haiku and other work by the fabulous Al Pizzarrelli.
  • Get a library or second hand copy of  Fresh Scent by Lee Gurga.
  • If you’d like to learn how to write, share and teach haiku, please help me send my kids to college by buying Higginson’s definitive book on haiku from my bookshop. ;)
  • This interesting essay is full of examples from The Haiku Anthology, which is also for sale in my bookshop.
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A Patchwork Post: Daffodils, Haiku and Chickens

by janice on March 19, 2010

daffodilsThe sun’s shining through rainy gales today, and I’m sitting in my kitchen, soaking up every last ray like a lizard on a rock. Shadows are dancing on the walls and I’m enjoying how the light blesses all my mismatched, brightly painted crockery and everyday treasures.

Sunshine makes every bit of living art in our homes beautiful, but shadows add depth and interest…to us, too.

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chickensOne way I welcome spring is to be open to all kinds of supermarket synchronicity. I fell in love with this range in the sales last week and brought some cheap and cheerful spring chirpiness into my kitchen. I’m always drawn to hearts and birds, but it seems the universe decided I needed a touch of whimsy, too!

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Those of you who’ve been visiting for a while will know I write poetry and lyrics, and am very fond of haiku and tanka. When I lived in Greece, I was fascinated by the changes in the wind, the tides and the sounds of crickets in the olive grove below the balcony where I wrote; I filled a lot of notebooks trying to capture the intensity of those moments and memories.  Most of what I wrote weren’t pure haiku but I liked their pared down essence so I kept some of them as poemlings in their own right.

I’ll be doing a mini series on ‘proper’ haiku next week, but in the meantime, here’s here’s a fragment  from one of my Greek  ‘word-sketchbooks’ and a link to one of the best posts I did last year :  Haiku: Showing Essence, Shedding Skins.

a warm wind rises
whipping up dust
and dried leaves

sun umbrellas flap
a loose shutter bangs

the trill and pulse of cricket chirping slows
to silence
in the olive groves
before the skies
crack

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This weekend, why don’t you start a word-sketchbook and capture some life sketches in a few brushstrokes, ready to be re-lived and reduced to their essence when you get home.

Or try distilling the essence of spring (or antipodean autumn) into three lines, of 5-7-5 syllables, in present tense only, with no similes or metaphors…

What flowers or images add a touch of  spring or whimsy to your home?

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Mothering Sunday – Why We All Need One

by janice on March 15, 2010

tulips

Mother’s Day in the UK  falls on a different date every year because it’s connected to Easter and always falls on the fourth Sunday of Lent. Traditionally, it was the one Sunday a year when young servant boys and girls had a chance to go home and be with their families who often lived a few towns away. (They had to live in the households they served and only had one day a year to go home and visit their families.) Hundreds of years ago, Lent was also a time for folk to visit the cathedrals in their diocese – the mother churches -  which was called going ‘a motherin.’

So it wasn’t just a day to give presents to mothers; it was a day of spiritual renewal, reunited families and rest, a day that served the needs of all the members of a family, turning their thoughts to  hope and resurrection. It was a day that celebrated a journey home, physically, emotionally and spiritually, and we could all use some of that.

Traditionally, I spend Mother’s Day in bed, having a lovely, long rest and reading a book (or two) from cover to cover. It begins with presents and breakfast in bed. The kids (under their dad’s supervision) make breakfast and we all sit on my bed and eat our breakfasts from trays. Then, my ultimate treat is to have time alone, with no housework or demands, problems to solve, solutions to find or arrangements to make. It’s the one day a year my kids make and bring me every snack, drink and meal and ask if I need anything, while leaving me alone to enjoy a hassle free day of guaranteed me time.

I think they’ve learned from my decadent decision to abandon them for one day a year just what a contrast it is to the other 364 days. They’ve also learned how important it is to proactively guarantee a loved one at least one argument and attitude free day! My son even asked if he could take a day off school sometime, stay in bed without being ill and celebrate Son’s Day. I stunned him by saying “OK”.

We could all do with mothering our inner children a bit more, even if we’ve no kids at home. If we lose touch with our own need for self care and restoration, we have less to offer others.

My mum died when I was pregnant with my son, so I have no mum to spoil on Mother’s Day. Her spirit is always with me, though, as flowers, chocolates and breakfast in bed served on treasured antique crockery made Mother’s Day her favourite day of the year. I celebrate her by celebrating life, the life she gave me and wanted me to fill full to the brim. I root myself firmly at home  – my normal week involves a  lot of ‘taxi driving’ – and shamelessly rest and indulge my senses.

This year, with my husband’s help, my kids got me tulips, a chic-lit easy read novel about angels and chocolate, some rose scented, rose-shaped tea lights and a bottle of cider. My favourite gift, the one they bought themselves, was Beth Nielsen Chapman’s latest CD and a small bag of chocolates.  I adore my children, and know only too well that I’m blessed to have them; the only way to love them is with gratitude for every, single moment I’m blessed to have them in my life. I aim to review the CD later, but I’ll leave you with a line from it, a dedication to my mum, my husband and my children.

All that matters when we’re gone

All that mattered all along

All we have that carries on…

…is how we love

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Writers Write (Revisited): Your Comments are Part of Your Writing Mosaic

by janice on March 5, 2010

quill-penLast year, I wrote a post called Writers Write: Your Comments are Part of Your Writing Mosaic. I’m even more convinced this year, after a blogging break, that our authentic selves often show up in our comments, regardless of what we present in well prepared posts. My tentative return to blogging has been subdued, to say the least, but I’ve felt myself starting to reconnect and engage again in some familiar comment boxes. Here’s an extract from that post; I enjoyed revisiting it:

I take thirty words to say what genius poets and great thinkers can say in a heartbeat! I think that’s why I’m so drawn to quotes. Some have a kind of distilled essence that comes from having been lovingly shared and passed around for years, like a worn wedding ring or a sea tossed pebble. ~Janice  (in a comments box somewhere…)

Are you tired? Do you regularly find yourself wondering where you’re going to find the inspiration for your posts? Maybe you don’t realise that your comments on other blogs  - and the replies you write in your own comments boxes – contain gems, the seeds of whole posts. They’re your spontaneous writing, your honest, authentic, initial responses to the writing prompts that are other people’s ideas and feelings.

I’ve had beautiful comments in the comment boxes here, pieces of writing that make the boxes a blog within a blog. Some blogs hint that people shouldn’t write long comments because it’s not good netiquette; when I’ve emailed bloggers to check, every single one has told me they’re touched to see that their posts have moved someone to say more than “Great post!”

It depends on which blogs you visit. That’s the key. Go where you love the work, enjoy the person and feel appreciated.

That way, the comments, whether they’re a few words or a paragraph, will flow unbidden and reveal the real you, piece by piece, like an online jigsaw coming together.

One of the reasons I get tired is that I enjoy reading my favourite blogs and checking out new sites, but I also like to comment if something moves me or inspires me. That takes time, but writers write and it’s all a jigsaw. We learn as much about ourselves from the comments we write as others learn about us. And it’s all practice. Here are some of the comments that gushed and flowed out of me, unedited, on other people’s blogs this week alone.*

(*I’ve removed the comments that formed the original post and replaced them below with some I left at colleagues’ blogs last week. Making occasional mosaics out of your comments or responses can also be a refreshing way to send link love to the bloggers whose posts have evoked those comments.)

I’ve always thought in terms of evolving, making the most of the seeds inside me and trying not to change my essential nature. I prefer, instead, to work on changing my supportive environments wherever possible, by providing the best soil, sun and water to nurture those seeds and getting rid of weeds and anything toxic that may throttle growth. Recently, I’ve also learned from nature that some of us are more deciduous than evergreen, and have distinctive and noticeable periods of dormant growth before blossoming. I’m also getting better at spotting ’squirrels’…

To Mary at Goodlife Zen

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In all aspects of life, not just in threatening situations, as soon as we stop blaming others and take responsibility for our own choices, happiness, health, language use and safety, as soon as we learn when to stay silent, when to be curious, when to ebb and flow or accept what we can’t change, that’s the miraculous moment we claim our power.

To Lori at Think Like a Black Belt

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I’m old school and techno challenged a lot of the time, but I still believe that if folk put as much effort into living authentic, fulfilling lives as they do reading loads of how to have it all and get rich quick now posts, they’d write better, be happier and ’success’ would be a by-product.

There’s a side of blogging reminds me of the story of The Emperor’s New Clothes – so many folk willing to believe what they’re told rather than listen to their own common sense.

To Barbara at Blogging Without a Blog

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Seeing life in terms of memoirs is such a powerful tool on so many levels. It reminds us that we’re here on earth to leave a legacy and that everything’s meant, even if we don’t ever get to see how many threads we’ve woven or lives we’ve touched. Sometimes it’s only when we look back that we can see all roads were actually leading to something we were unaware of; sometimes, our interests as youngsters were actually the first signs of our gifts and of our destinies. It’s always empowering to see ourselves as the authors of our own lives and experiences.

To Bo at The Calm Space

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And here are some replies I wrote to a variety of wonderful, supportive and thought provoking comments in the boxes here at Sharing the Journey last week.

Oh how I wish I could lie and tell you I went into the garden wearing a flowery apron and carrying a trug and some gardening shears, deadheading and selecting the dewiest blooms….But, nope…I bought them from our equivalent of Walmart. My garden’s full of flowering evergreens and perennials because I’m an intrinsically lazy gardener. I like creating and arranging, but maintenance? Not so much.

I’m so glad you liked the flowers. One of the things I’ve always done with my blog – and one of the reasons I take frequent breaks – is that I always ask myself what I have to offer anyone taking the time to visit my site when there are so many out there to choose from. Even if the answer’s as simple as a coffee and chat with a friend and some cheery flowers to brighten a blogging day, I feel I’ve contributed something.

(…responding to Brenda )

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I’ve been craving scent and colour recently – as well as soup – and it’s almost as if I’m being guided back into my full-on senses way of operating. Sometimes I get so overloaded with sensation, inspiration and engagement that my synapses feel fried, but after a restorative rest, it’s always intriguing to see how life lures me back in! (…responding to Evelyn )

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Your words warmed my heart. I went to a hermit aunt’s funeral yesterday, to support my elderly dad. I was surrounded by a small group of family members; some of them I only see at funerals, and some I hadn’t seen in 35 years. They didn’t know me back then and they certainly don’t know me now. I found myself thinking how my friends and blog readers from continents on the other side of the planet know me much better through listening with open hearts to my written words than many of the folk in my ‘real’ life do. I work on improving my life every day, but I never cease to be grateful for comments like yours and those above. They restore my faith and keep me writing from the heart, even when I’m ridiculed and sneered at for doing it. (…responding to Ciaran)

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Have you had a good look at your comments on other blogs recently; the replies in your own? Try cutting and pasting a week’s worth into a document to see what your online jigsaw looks like. Are there any seeds of spontaneity there that you could build whole posts from?

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Writing Snow

by janice on February 25, 2010

garden snow

We are not powerless specks of dust drifting around in the wind, blown by random destiny. We are, each of us, like beautiful snowflakes -  unique, born for a specific reason and purpose. ~ Elizabeth Kübler-Ross

I was woken at an ungodly hour by the arrival of a text message; school was cancelled due to heavy snow. I got up and looked blearily out of my bedroom window to see two feet of snow. I padded into the kitchen and found it eerily bright as I trudged over to the sink to fill the kettle for coffee. Through the kitchen window I saw our ten-year-old laurels bowed down and broken by the weight of the snow on their branches. They’d formed the privacy hedge at my small back garden, and I felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable.

I grabbed a sweeping brush and rushed outside in my dressing gown, trying to save as many remaining branches as I could.

I thought back to old Coaching Moments posts I’d written, phrases I’d used. This is an extract from War of the Words, about the language we use with our loved ones:

I created this piece in my head as I stood at the kitchen window, watching the falling snow bend our trees in the eerie orange glow of a street light in the middle of the night. I’d gone to bed mid-argument, couldn’t sleep, my husband  came to bed, I got up, so I’d decided to go and make some camomile tea. I stood at the window, mesmerised by the swirling orange snowflakes and wondering how something as delicate as a snowflake had the power to bend and break the branches of trees. As I stood watching, I saw one supple branch rebel under the weight of the thousands of snowflakes heaped upon it,  catapulting its burden with surprising defensive venom. I went outside in my bare feet and dressing gown and gently swept the snow off the remaining trees with a broom, knowing it was too late to take back the thousands of tiny thoughtless comments I heap on my husband over the days, weeks and months until he feels he has to lash back at me about my lack of appreciation and my seeming obsession with perfecting details. I hoped I could at least save some of our branches.

In this extract, from Shaking off the Shoulds, I use a snow metaphor to describe the freedom we experience when we free ourselves from the burdens of self imposed ’shoulds’, and learn to see the world and all its promise  and wonder through children’s eyes:

While I’ve been sitting here writing, it’s stopped snowing and some of the snow has thawed. I’ve just watched a laurel branch bounce back from under its burden of snow, launching it like a catapult.

That’s how I feel as I shake off the shoulds, the rest of my snow day beckoning me like our snow covered front garden, silently waiting to share its treasure when the kids come home.

And in this extract from a comment response I wrote, the snow becomes a symbol for overwhelm and despair as we struggled to dig  a way out for my friend’s car so she could get to her chemotherapy session.

Because of the snow, my friend has struggled to get into hospital for her chemotherapy. That’s helped me gradually regain my sense of perspective. One day, as a few of us were digging the snow from her drive, I felt that if I could just keep digging and clearing until there was a way out, somehow, it would all be OK.

I also used a snow metaphor in The Sound of Music to describe the period of my life when I lost my ‘voice’ and almost drifted into depression:

I sang my way around Europe when I worked as a language teacher and translator; my voice was a vital part of who I was and what I did.  After I had my kids, I moved back to Scotland and slowly, imperceptibly, I stopped writing, stopped singing, stopped playing the guitar and even stopped speaking the foreign languages I was fluent in. Silence gently settled around my soul like snow.

When I drifted into life coaching, on my journey out of what I now realise was low grade chronic depression, my passion to tell the whole world about it bubbled up, spilled over and finally gushed out in the torrent that helped me rediscover my voice.

Snowflakes are delicate, astonishing things. Every one is unique and fragile yet, silently, just sitting there side by side… still… simply being, their lives are extended and their power is immense.

The polar ice caps are the breath of the planet, a delicately balanced element in the health of the oceans’ currents and conveyor belts.  

But snow can also devastate, crush, wreak havoc, block roads, bring down powerlines and sever communication.

Like stinging snowflakes in a blizzard, each unkind word spoken to our children and loved ones, if left unchecked, can pile up until something precious is broken under the weight.

Every sadness we accept with an unquestioning sigh can build up until, without realising it, our hearts are shrouded in drifts of silent, snowy depression.

Every lack of clear communication can lead to drifts of misunderstanding that ultimately shut down all channels of communication.

Every piece of junk mail we leave lying around, every book we can’t part with or memento we don’t know how to deal with can become an avalanche of clutter.

But snow can’t co-exist with warmth, and even if snowfall is inevitable, we can be prepared and vigilant, and take small steps towards doing what we can. I could have brushed yesterday’s first snowfalls off my treasured bushes and small trees. If I had, they might not have broken under the weight of last night’s gentle but consistent snow fall.

We haven’t had blizzards; it’s been snowing softly and gently. But it hasn’t stopped, and that’s the lesson I’m taking away with me today.

One kind word doesn’t build a kind, loving relationship.

One written word doesn’t make a great piece of writing. One post doesn’t make a great blog, nor does one article make a successful newsletter.

One essay doesn’t make a degree, one lesson a teacher or one training course a life coach.

One cleared pile of paper clutter doesn’t let your house breathe.

One beautiful memento doesn’t make a home, just as one memory doesn’t make a life.

But our uniqueness as human beings, the gentle consistent, accumulative power of every loving deed and word, every smile from a stranger, every supportive comment left on a blog, every small triumph, every tip that transforms a life, every photo that inspires, every little success, every step or decision that takes us in the right direction, – they do make a life. A good life. We’re not just snowflakes. Together, we’re snow.

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I’d love to be the kind of snow that makes children’s eyes wide with wonder and Christmas magical. I’d like to be as strong as the kind of snow that supports the Winter Olympics. Some days, all I can manage is grey slush by the side of the road. What does snow mean for you? What’s your unique strength as a snowflake?

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(Update: It’s still snowing, and for the second time in two months, we’ve had about thirty inches of snow. Miraculously, though, we still have an internet connection!)

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Thermal Writing

by janice on February 24, 2010

our snowed-in car

The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes — ah, that is where the art resides. ~ Artur Schnabel

It’s snowing here in Scotland today – again – but the glow of gratitude I got from last week’s glimpse of spring and from welcoming friendly faces back to my blog has kept me thawed and glowing inside. The snow has already blocked roads, and my daughter’s long awaited dental appointment has had to be cancelled. But it’s all happening for a reason. I’ve no idea what that reason is, but it’s at times like these I play a toned down adult version of Pollyanna’s ‘glad game’, looking for the blessings in what seem like bummers.

  • The snow has given me the excuse to stay in and post a few photos of the freak weather from December and January that had us snowbound.
  • My article in The Kitchen Table Space last month describes a snowy day a few years ago when I actually loved being snowed in. If you haven’t rooted around in my archives or downloaded my free ebook, this old article is one of my favourites, a perfect tonic if your heart feels snowbound or you need a boost to get some spring cleaning done.
  • I was at a funeral yesterday, supporting my dad. It was pretty bleak, and even though there were uplifting life lessons in it for me, I’m glad it snowed today and not yesterday. It wasn’t a place I’d like to be snowbound in.
  • I’m feeling happy that I celebrated the sun  and the stirrings of spring last week when I had the chance. I could so easily have missed them and the inspiration they brought.
  • The snow back in December and January was so heavy and prolonged, today’s snowfall seems somehow manageable. (That’s our car in the photo above.)
  • One day’s snow doesn’t create lethal iciclesicicles!

Writing about spring feels like a talisman, one that’s kept today’s bout of bleak weather from blowing my wee blogging boat off course as I tentatively start to sail set sail again.

This isn’t what I planned to post today, but what do you know…I now have some posts in reserve! Going with the flow hasn’t brought the sky crashing down on my head, either.

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Does your writing ever act as a talisman to warm your heart? What  – if anything – do you use it to ward off?

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