Writer's Block

Recently, my writing took a turn.  All of a sudden, short stories were arriving.  It was interesting and they need a fair amount of revision.  Then I thought, where am I going to put these?  Too long for a blog, do I actually have to send them out?

So I just put the first one, a memoir, on the blog.  Thank you for seeing the love and pain in that one, those of you who responded.

I looked around at all the notebooks I have filled during my life. Thirty-five or so.  I thought, " You have to get rid of these so no one else has to deal with them when you die."  ( Good headspace, huh)

Then I stopped writing.

I knew something was wrong in my life.  I felt weird. What was it?

No notebook writing!

I have journaled for years to keep my sanity, to coach myself, to find out what I really think and feel, to let my creativity flow.

All of the meditations, poetry and stories were first in the journaling. Now, my listening to my guides, the universe and myself was cut off.  I had stopped the flow.

Big Mistake!!!!  This realization cured my writer's block.

My advice is don't stop yourself, don't censor  yourself, don't correct yourself.  And don' t define yourself.

I am choosing to realize I have a body of work, as writers have through the ages.

I have meditations, blogs, poetry, essays, memoirs, recordings for children, teens and adults, and now pieces of writing that may be called short stories.

But mostly I am a messy journal writer.  And yes, I am keeping those journals.  I look closer and find a treasure trove of important dreams, story ideas, reflections, and memories to rework or just remember what my life was like at certain times.

I write the blog because I think someone else must be going through the same thing and needs to  hear that.

So, writer, painter,yoga practitioner, musician, or artist of  your own life, keep the flow, keep the faith and love to you.   Namaste.

A Message I frequently receive

" What is the purpose of life?"

"To create Beauty."

This is the answer I always receive when I ask my guides this question. 

To Create Beauty  -  in life
                              -   in our art
                              -   in our relationships
                              -   with our children
                              -    in our work
What is Beauty?
                              -    Love. Love for life
                                              Love for others
                                               Love for nature
Creating Joy and understanding every day, with gratitude for this job we have been given.

Lucky us. If we can have the grace to open to this work.  Namaste.

For my mother, Memoir from a Daughter

The storm was present in my consciousness all night.  Ebbing and flowing, the wind blowing throughout my sleep.

I was dreaming of snow- a snowstorm to be exact.  The wind whistling through the cracks in the window, the sound of the snow drifting up against the house, and the knowledge that the world would look different when we woke up.

I was cozy in my bed, warm and snug, knowing my parents would keep me that way- safe and comfortable while they slept across the hallway.

I woke up- not in the snow, but to the rain.  And I achingly missed my parents as I  hadn't in years.

To explain, I have always felt pulled in two directions - between the life I have here in California and the one I could have lead in Wisconsin, with my parents and siblings.

We were in our twenties and blithley got in our little car and drove to California, breaking my parents' hearts.

We saw them once or twice a year, but it wasn't the same as living in the same town or even the same state.

I remember once I called my mom. She said, " It's snowing. The first snowfall of the year."

"Is it sticking? " I asked.

"Oh yes.  It's so pretty."

"Oh," I said.  She knew by the tone in my voice how I missed seeing that layer of soft white muffling the sound and turning everything into beauty.

The last time I talked to her, there was no snow.  I said, " You have to eat."  She said, " I ate a strawberry.  When are you coming?"

"July fifteenth."

" That's not soon enough."

"Well, that's when we have our reservations."

And she was right, as she was so many times when I only half listened.

Upon landing, the pilot said, " It is four o'clock in Wisconsin."
When we got to the house, my Dad said, "She died at four o'clock.
Indeed, it wasn't soon enough.

In a dream quite a few years ago, my grandmother and I were standing in the back garden, the one my mother had created, with lilac bushes, snapdragons, phlox and lilies of the valley.  We were looking at the full moon.

My grandmother said, "Look at the moons."

And then there were many moons, one above the other in its own strip of sky, each a different shade of color. Silver, pink, orange, blue and more.

I looked and thought, " Parallel moons, parallel lives, each one a possible life, a constellation of a turning point, I could have   chosen."

And now I am about the age my mother was when I last spoke to her.  And I look at the "Grandmother Moon" dream a little differently.  The moons seem to me to be the stages in a woman's life.  Infant, child, maiden, mother, and grandmother.

And so, I say to my mother," Thank you for bearing me, even though I caused you pain. Thank you for giving me this remembrance full of joy and pain."

I know you experienced happiness, for I have a memory and a picture of you as a young mother, doing a cartwheel on our grass, laughing and full of joy.

I know you showed me the for-get-me-nots that were your mother's favorite flower, so I would remember her and you. 

And I do remember.

I was looking for you after dinner.  You were lying on your bed, tired after feeding and looking after a family of five.  You moved over to let me lie next to you. And we listened to the crickets through the screen in the summer night. 

Namaste,  Lia