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A Tale of Two Mondays

Monday mornings are infamous in a culture conditioned to have fun on weekends and go back to the ‘grind’ of work/school/paying bills/paying dues. Off we trudge, lunch bags in hand, grieving the past days of sunshine and steeling ourselves for the days ahead, just like our ancestors did. No wonder I woke up feeling achy and sore like an aged labourer. I was repeating a pattern set long before I was born. However, I have something my ancestors did not: knowledge of myself as Signal in a body for the human experience, offering a new way to move through the world, and ownership of my choice to do it or not.

Sounds easy, yes? Know different, choose different. Part of the knowing different is listening to body cues – pressure, pain, or stiffness, for example – then breathing and relaxing into those sensations, inviting energy to move and information to present itself. Often this looks like prolonged periods of mindful breathing, relaxation, and quiet as the brain calms to let the body do its thing. However, silence is uncomfortable for most of us, particularly those of us with Signals pushing to be heard through the droning demands of the outside world. Writers are especially adept at filling the inner void with constant chatter of stories, often developing elaborate explanations for why this hurts or that annoys or this other thing just isn’t working.

So this particular Monday I awoke to a rainy day with head swimming, lower back aching, and the desire to do little except burrow under my quilt and wish the world away. My choices were many. I could claim that I had a virus, pop some Tylenol, go back to bed and wish for Tuesday to come as soon as possible. I could yawn and stretch and make breakfast, because of course everything can be fixed with a good meal. I could suck it up and push through, go to my desk and plunge into my do-list.

Instead, I chose ME. I did go back to bed but mindfully, stretched under the covers and breathed. I breathed into my lower back and relaxed. Breath gentle and steady, owning the wisdom of what my body was locking down and inviting it to move. And there it came, a memory in my awareness of frustration with another’s choice and actions spun into a story that kept a ball of righteous rage spinning deep in my lower back: fire energy that I could choose to use for creation, instead choosing to lock it away, keeping me achy and in place rather than energized and in flow.  So easy to stay stuck in the feeling, to keep the frustration going when it is about another person. Why don’t they know better? Why do they keep doing that to themselves?  Meanwhile, my energy stays diverted and my intellect insists I push on and not let it bother me. Sheer genius.

Genius that no longer serves if I choose to evolve and live fully in the life I am creating, moment by moment.

The thing is, once one story emerges, others will follow. More ownership of creation required … in this case my knowledge that I had started my Monday morning lockdown on Sunday, binge-watching Succession past when my body wanted to go to bed. A two-pronged genius approach here. Lack of sleep guaranteed I would wake up feeling like I was hit by a train. And hours immersed in a streaming service meant I was not present to my internal stream of consciousness, the flow of energy into words into my expressions to the world. Stay silent, stay safe. That may be true in some circumstances, for some people. It is not true for me. How to alert me to my misguided choices? The body never lies.

After I owned my binge-watching hangover as part of this intelligent yet misguided creation to keep my fire energy locked down, I could touch yet another story churning beneath. Write a blog today? No, don’t have time.

Hmmmm. I have an entire day spread ahead of me. As a contract worker I have more control than most over my external demands of time. No room to write my own blog? Of course I have room. Space is infinite.

And here I am. Back pain is gone. Head is still a little swimmy, but I’m only one coffee in. Body is relaxed as words flow, not squeezed under external pressure, invited to flow from within.

How many Monday morning agonies are tied to the stories found in workplaces and schedules, the lack of room for change or adaptation, the ‘we’ve always done it this way‘, or ‘too late or too old to change now‘ or the myriad of other ways we as humans convince ourselves that change is scary, habit is productive, routine is the grease to the human wheel of survival.  Well, habits can be reframed and reformed and patterns can be interrupted, and if we as a world want things to be different, we as individuals need to be honest with ourselves about where we choose habits and patterns of others, take ownership of all we create and choose mindfully for ourselves.

This blog is proof of what happens with ownership, choice and mindful breath. For you it might look like something else … a chapter outline, a pitch to a publisher, cleaning out the closet, whatever you hold as something you want to do yet to this point have avoided doing it. There is a reason why you haven’t done it. Honour that in the moment, and open to learn from it. Then the stigma of Monday morning may fade into the infinity that is a quantum existence, where, as the beloved Lady Violet from Downton Abbey, we ask, puzzled, “What is a weekend?”

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The Longest Day of the Year

I love lilacs. The scent, their simple elegance, their tenacity … every May and June, they brighten my world and remind me to stop, smell, and just BE.

The longest day of the year, the summer solstice … that’s a powerful invitation too and this year the lilacs were a bit late, leaving a few hardy blooms around in time for this special transition that only recently I am coming to fully appreciate.

It was on the longest day of the year that someone I care about became a widower, and it was on the longest day of the year five years later that I awoke with a story too vivid to ignore, a story so urgent in my body that I sat and wrote for a day until it was finished. It was a story of how they met, this man and his wife, the story of the longest day decades before. It was a tale of shy attractions and veiled hopes, of a watch that suddenly stopped telling time and a moonlight dash for forbidden lilacs from a cranky neighbour’s yard, shared with me in wisps and phrases. I wrote a story and created something new. At the time, it was something I couldn’t NOT do. After I worked up the courage to share it with him, it became a story we both were called to tell.

It was on that longest day that the Finding Maria series was born.  His story in four books. I knew not then the power of what I was writing, just that I could feel an expansion, a light, with every new chapter and I could see in him the courageous evolution he invited in sharing his story to process life choices and heal the grief. What has taken considerably longer is for me to sit with what writing the series did, and continues to do for me.

I offered him a powerful creation and wanted nothing in return. He stood firm and offered me an invitation – to step into the creator that I am, the writer that I am, the I AM that I am. And that is an invitation for which I have not always been grateful. After years of allowing my intellect to form my tiny controlled world, it became difficult to separate fact from fiction, the who I AM compared to the who I was trained to be.  After four books of another’s story, the fifth book rests squarely with me and I know in my body, as I did with that short story so many years ago, that this next book is mine: no fiction, no hiding. What has been buried in the fog of battle between ME as signal and the world my intellect is protecting are the words I choose to share, the story I want to tell. For years, what has percolated through the various shoulds and can’ts and musts and don’ts has been prose that to me feels wilted, crushed, unrecognizable. I have had to relearn how to write: not on demand and without thinking, as I have always done, not plucking the words and setting them down but releasing into the flow of energy that I am and allowing the words to surface. Sounds easy. Too easy, my brain hisses. And so I make it difficult, distracting myself, becoming insanely busy so I don’t have time to know I’m distracting myself … and all the while, my words, like the lilacs, fragrant and tenacious, wait for me to BE and notice.

I did that today. On this longest day of the year, and what has turned out to be one of the hottest days of the year so far, I spent the afternoon relaxing, listening inward, waiting for the physical cue saying Yes, it’s time, let’s write this. It may not read differently than anything else I’ve written. It may read worse. It felt good to write, and in all honesty, it has been a long time since I could say that. Writing had been at best a means to survival. I had never allowed myself to want it, to love it, to grow with and because of it. Just like with the man who inspired this writing journey, the man I call my Muse. I never allowed myself to own the power of our co-creations, the power of our interactions, the power of us just being in each other’s presence. It seemed too much, too unattainable, too good to be true. As I backed away, my words backed up and the book I meant to release five years ago remains raw, in pieces, and parts unwritten.

Today as I sat with my manuscript in progress, I found I had written about that, a massive metaphor.  Here’s a sneek peak at what I’m working on, shared here today in gratitude for my Muse:

With him I felt that I could not just write but feel beyond places and dates to the dance of the ocean, warmth of the sky, the aroma of joy itself. In his presence I awakened to the possibilities of a creative life, a connected life, feeling for the first time the essence of another, and being felt completely in return. And it was in his presence that for the first time, words failed me. We had been given a blank page for our co-existence upon which to create whatever we wished. I wanted to fill the page with adventures, experiences, memories. I didn’t want labels or constructs or obligations. But I had no words to explain, and when he would ask What do you want? I would mumble, repeat some well-worn story of ‘whatever was needed from me’ or ‘whatever I was meant to have’ with no insight, no hint even, of the person giving the answer.  So the page remained blank. Stuck, like the book I now struggle to write.

It hasn’t been easy for either of us in this world strange yet familiar, expansive yet fitting in nowhere and I’ve allowed my fear to govern my choices and reactions. Yet like the lilacs, we remain tenacious, coming back into each other’s presence and conversations, continuing to connect amid storms and stories that draw us in different directions.

Releasing into the chaos  means there is no fear, only awareness. Writing for me is no longer a means of survival. It is a key to evolution. It is a key to the life I want. It is the key to me being ME, because until I can be my full self I cannot have what I want with others. When I am ME, words never fail. 

The Finding Maria series produced, among other things, lilacs that will never fade 🙂

My creation from that first short story, in print and in life, is still revealing itself when I pause and ask to know more.  The blank page – of my story and in my life – no longer frightens. It does irritate now and then, which is a great invitation to embrace the fire of creative energy and get to it or, as my Muse has been saying for more than a decade, ‘get ‘er done.’

The lilacs have faded and light on the longest day is dimming. A new season and a new chapter has just begun.

 

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The surprise of old cold love

Every year it happens. I breathe deeply of the last days of Christmas, smile warmly and embrace the promise of a new year, vow to write and clean and sing and play through the dark days of winter into spring’s warming light. You know the feeling, the zing and glow of a new relationship, the ecstacy of snuggling with a love both new and familiar, the letting go into a sparkling river of hope and joy that carries you forward in a million dots of delight that nothing can touch or tame.

Until it happens. By the second week of January and the second snowstorm, irritable from lack of sunlight and frozen in the grey reality that is an east coast winter, life officially sucks. Why? Why after living my entire life in the same cycle of seasons does this take me by surprise every year, and why do I end up feeling the same way every time? It’s like being in a bad relationship, one that no longer supports or serves but its parties are too tired, too indifferent, too detached to care enough to end it.

And there was my green dot moment, a point of awareness in the gloom. It hit me the other morning as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, debating whether to get up or stay put. I rolled over and heard the words in my head as clearly as if I had said it out loud.

“Oh, you’re still here …”

You’ve been there, cozy in bed, then you roll over and eye the snoring lump beside you, slammed back to reality. “Oh, you’re still here,” you mutter, in that moment wanting them and all the baggage attached to the relationship gone, but too mired in self-doubt, self-pity, or fear of being alone to say the words, set the plan, make it real. I promise to love January then wish it was July. I promise to love me, then wish I was someone somewhere else.

That morning, I said it, but the only snoring lump in bed was me. I was still here. I was promising for months to love myself but in reality, there were times when I really couldn’t stand myself. I wanted me and all my baggage gone, but then again, I wanted to be healthy and whole. Deep down I do love myself, but rarely do I let myself feel it like I feel the love I have for others. I simply don’t allow it. And when I don’t allow my love for myself, the love I have for others comes out filtered through my own loathing, feeling to them strained, arduous, inauthentic, not always identified, but sensed in a way that can be uncomfortable, unsettling. There can be no intimacy with that sort of chill underlying every breath and action, perpetuating the loneliness, inviting the frustration and then subduing it in a cloud of ‘who cares, there’s no point.’

I want to love January like I love July, for no reason than it is January, just January, with all its storms and cold and wind and darkness and greyness and isolation.  I want to love me like I love others in my life, for no reason other than I’m me, just me. No changes or fixing. Just me. My appearance, my talents, my fears, my stubborn habits, my restlessness, my desires, my crankiness, my joy. I need to embrace it all, stand firm in the things I find painful, allow joy where it beckons. A January nor-easter can freeze you to the bone and bury you in snow. It can also  make your skin tingle, blow the cobwebs from your brain, and coat your world in a powdery cocoon that invites indoor snuggling with cozy blankets, hot tea, and a fresh journal. July with all its warmth and beachy splendour cannot do that. Likewise, I am no beauty in the morning – or any other time of day for that matter – but I am who I want to be in this moment, and have the parts and pride to create what I want in the next moment.

“Oh, you’re still here.” Me speaking is the part of me stuck in the world that is ‘good enough’, safe and cozy by being inert and hidden because nothing is ever good enough or possible. Me listening, that snoring lump in the bed, is me cocooned, ready to toss off the covers and take on another day, with each footstep, each pile of laundry washed and deadline met is another step into a life I am creating.

You bet I’m still here. So is January. And thank God for it all. I don’t want it to be July, not yet. There’s much to do and love right now.

Thanks for being here.

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View from the Depths: a Mermaid’s ode to a book club

We are warmly welcomed into a room lined with books – on shelves, tucked under the coffee table, footing the window seat, surrounded by a view of water glinting defiantly under clouds leaden with the last of a rare summer rain. High on an island hilltop, it was a space by and for book lovers but at first glance no place for a mermaid.

“I must be a mermaid … I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living,” Anais Nin once wrote and by no coincidence I am drawn to the image of mermaids and the murky depths they call home. On this day, however, I surface in response to the generous invitation of Tuesdays at Two. This book club of gracious and well-read women has been meeting for a decade, longer than I’ve been writing books, and devote an annual afternoon to hosting a writer in the flesh. They list of a who’s who of local and CanLit guests of the past and I hear the tune ‘One of These Things is Not Like the Other,” from my childhood formed by Sesame Street.

Yet they have invited me here as part of this distinguished list to talk about Orchids for Billie and the little boy I created. In spontaneous acknowledgement of the unique story behind the story, they have widened their invitation to include the man whose life inspired the Finding Maria series, the real ‘little Jack,’ to speak to the experience of having one’s memories and experience crafted into a story and shared with the world. Even more rare than this day of rain during our dry summer is the opportunity for the two of us to speak together on this story we created. For more than a decade we have worked, explored and collaborated as a team, yet usually in the privacy of a one-on-one meeting or solitary reflection and response. This was a test: could I let go of my creation enough to let the person speak for himself? Would I hold my own in conversation or revert to detached observer and slip off into the depths? Would this public airing of our unseen connection be appreciated or painful?

In a word, it was brilliant.

In the years since I began writing the Finding Maria series I’ve come to own my desire for intense conversations, with no question too deep or topic too touchy to explore. Yet the art and beauty of conversation is too often lost in the world of tweets, sound bytes and fear: of offending, of intruding, of being nosy. The group gathered on the hilltop this silvery summer day was none of those things, nor could they ever be. They are informed, sincere, and genuinely interested in the story and the people who inspired it, and in that environment, there is no greater safety to explore, dive, and peer into darkened corners and blink at the revelations. It is the environment I first discovered in conversation with the man who quietly became my partner in business and creation and today sits next to me, sharing his story in a clarity of voice that our creation helped reveal. As one book became two, then three and four and the demands of our commercial venture took over, I had forgotten the beauty of revelation in the written word. I had forgotten how insightful and engaging that little boy could be.

Why?

While writing as a vocation is intensely rewarding and deeply revealing, it to me is wholly unattractive. Painters, potters and weavers, for example, are a joy to watch, their deft movements giving rise to a creation that takes shape before your eyes. Most days I feel like a human seive, absorbing all of life’s gobs and bits and chunks, then tasked with the process of straining our a clear, refined stream of consciousness ready to be sipped and savoured. Who on Earth wants to watch that?

For the longest time, not me and for years, I could do it without watching, thinking, or above all feeling as I quickly sifted through facts for the assignment at hand. Writing the Finding Maria series for the first time kept me in place, immersed in the chunks and bits, and I’ve too often responded in panic or rebellion. Now called to write my own story in the series, I am up to my eyeballs in the mess, the pulp, the unwanted and long-forgotten scraps, and it is easy to look away and pretend to be elsewhere, in a world too busy for such straining and sorting, in a life too full for new possibilities, in a space where feelings are to be toned down or ignored.

Tuesday’s conversation didn’t cut through the mess, but embraced it. Orchids for Billie emerged from chaos to offer a story of hope. It invited readers from many places, spaces and perspectives to a single room, on a single day, to add their own layers and colours to the words on the page. I sat in the presence of many wonderful stories by sharing the one I wrote, steeped in courage from the only man in the room, seated next to me, who outwardly chose none of this bizarre journey that is writing and publishing but is both allowing the unseen to take us where it will and permitting his story to be the interface.

A business coach and dear friend once told me I overthink my blogs. They don’t need to be so deep. They can be superficial, lighter, how-to hints or top 10 lists, and search rankings would prove her right. But I have floated in the shallow end for too long. This is deep and I like it there. Granted, it’s a great place to hide. But there is also great safety in knowing someone will invite you to surface every now and then and connect with those who would support and be supported by discoveries from the depths.

On a hilltop, on an island, there is no place to hide and in such a place, who would want to? To the ladies of Tuesdays at Two, may you go on to discuss hundreds of books and treat more lucky authors to an afternoon of your caring conversation. To those of you book lovers not in a club, start one. And to my partner in creation, thank you for your quiet yet unshakeable presence that invites me to shine a little bit more, added light by which to sort the flotsam from the jetsam as the quest for Book Five continues.

Thanks for reading.

– Jennifer

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and partner in publishing company Marechal Media Inc.