What Painting Buddha Taught Me About Writing

From the time I was old enough to color, I wanted to paint. I kept saying “When I get older, I’ll paint.”

I guess I’m older now. It’s been poking at me with more persistence than normal. When I sunk into the mental process of deciding what I wanted to paint, I found myself drawn to the East.

I’m not religious, but I am very spiritual. There’s a clear difference to me. I see religion so often as a vehicle that carries people farther from the Divine instead of closer to it. They seem to get so wrapped up in coffee and cake meetings that love, compassion, and appreciation of the diversity of creation elude them. I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work, but if you study world religions that’s so often what happens. Each group thinks the rules they follow are the right ones and everyone else is simply misguided. Some religions are more tolerant of different thinking than others, but arguably any structure by its nature secretly (or not so secretly) feels right.

For me, Truth strings through them all. I have always been keenly aware that there is an amazing Source greater than me and yet somehow connected to me. My goal is to strengthen my alignment with that Source (or God or Creator–all names seem insufficient and okay at the same time) daily and by doing that, to evolve the world in a loving way rather than one filled with hate, discrimination, and fear. Simple, really.

Recently, I watched a documentary called “Inner and Outer Worlds.” It showed how to keep our inner worlds balanced in an outer world that’s constantly whirling about Tasmanian-Devil style. While watching, I found myself (as I have at various times in my life) drawn to the images of Buddha. The stillness and space of the images. During this same time frame, my husband had been looking for a Buddha picture that had been given to us from his dad years ago.

The signs seemed clear. I knew the Buddha would be my first painting and it would be for my husband. For a flash I was reticent about launching my introduction to my new paint class as the “Buddha Girl.” I live in more of a “crosses” kind of town right now. I’d be way better received if I were to paint an angel or Jesus on the cross. I suspected my Zen bend would make the other people suspicious of me. Not one to live according to what people think about me, I let it go as quickly as it came. After all, if I can’t be who I am at 50, I am certainly not connecting my inner and outer worlds well at all.

So I brought my many Buddha shots to my paint class. I flipped through them with my instructor and settled on the one above. I was excited that my new paint teacher, Sandi, said I could paint this in my first class with acrylics. That meant I’d have it in time for our anniversary. I felt the reactions from other painters. Some were intrigued, others suspicious as I’d suspected. Sandi was enthusiastic and highly creative. I knew I’d found a teacher who would let me play and develop my own creative channels.

As I brushed red on the white canvas, I thought about how similar painting is to writing. You start with a blank page. Tabula Rasa. From that, you create something wholly different than white. Ideally, anyway. You pour out part of your soul. You add color and contrast in characters and places you create. Your inner world has found a visual path to the outside.

While the first layer dried, I thought about the role time plays in the creative process. If you try to rush things, it can get goopy.But my real epiphany came while watching Sandi at work. One of the other painters had asked her to help paint an “eye” on a child painting she was making of her grandson. As Sandi dabbed her fine brush around the pupil, she talked about how every painter should paint portraits because it makes a person so observant. I loved the metaphor, eyes being windows to the soul and all.

So goes writing. I especially love watching comedians who write their own material. I’m an avid follower of “Last Comic Standing” for just this reason. The way the current comics are able to create humor from their fine-tuned powers of observing the mundane causes Roseanne to say nearly every week, “I love your ability to find a new slant on the mundane.”

That’s the sweet spot of creating anything. We all have it inside us. If only we quietly observe, we have all the material we need to create a masterpiece.

Happy 50, Jamie!

Today I turn 50, and while I’m certainly taller now, some things don’t change. I still love kids, dogs, and blankies. I still actually have this afghan that my grandma crocheted about 90 years ago in that awesome 60s color combo.

I recognize that it’s quasi-culturally unacceptable to celebrate your own birth publically in a blog, but it wouldn’t be the first time I turned my head on the norm. That happens more and more the closer I get to 100.

I love birthdays–other people’s and my own–because they mark the day we decided to show up to this amazing adventure. I feel like it’s only right to celebrate each physical moment we have here on earth, be utterly grateful for the day it started…to grow, to stretch, to soak up each sunrise and sunset, to serve others and by so doing, serve ourselves most fully. So between the happy birthday phone calls, I will shamelessly hum the birthday song to myself all day long, not in an egoic kind of way, but in a grateful to have dropped by kind of way.

On the writing front, I had a great conversation with my friend Lois last week. We met at my first SCBWI meeting in a classroom inside Pacific Palisades’ Lutheran church where Lin Oliver did a workshop on humor. I liked her right away, better than anybody in the room, and we’ve been friends ever since– through moves, kids, through writing triumphs and challenges. Lois has many talents, but one I’ve always admired is her allegiance to daily writing schedule during first draft stage on novels. I can drag it out, distracted by life and a myriad of legitimate excuses. My first novel took me a year for a first draft, and 3 for one million (exactly–I counted) revisions.

But with the way the stars are lined up right now, and the shift I feel in my own patterning, we set a goal: I will do something on my current novel every day, even if that’s simply to open the document. It’s just time to establish a good first draft habit. (I will be on blog break next week while my hubby and I celebrate, but I will take my laptop and I will AT LEAST OPEN my document every day!)

The first night I started my new habit I went up to my desk (since it was not my carpool turn) and opened the document. I heard the kids get in the car and take off, knowing I had a solid 2.5 hours before they’d be back and hungry for 10pm after-practice tacos. In what seemed like 5 minutes, I heard something outside the office window. They were back. I seriously thought they’d forgotten something. I looked down at the time. It was 9:40! I’d lost all track of time. I remembered–that’s why I love writing. I lose myself there, like in the garden when I’m playing in the dirt and time stands still.

So far, 100% success for the week! Thank you, Lois, for always being there for me, letting me be there for you, and sharing this writer’s journey which is full of so many twists and turns. It’s friends like you that make it so much more fun to live on this planet and travel this journey.

With this goal, even today–between my Cyntergy class, massage appointment, humming the birthday song, and family dinner–I WILL open Intuition. The end.

California Dreamin’

I love dreams. I value them. I’m talking here about the kind of dreams you have at night when you go to sleep and let your guard down. These dreams have changed and are changing the world. But sometimes we get so busy with the problems of the day, we disregard the value of our night dreams.

Many of my friends don’t even dream and when I bring it up, they roll their eyes. There goes Jamie being Jamie.

For thousands of years many cultures have placed high value on using and understanding dream material. There were special dream preparation ceremonies, dream temples, rules about dream preparation (ie. no drugs or alcohol for three days when preparing for dreams). And the symbols that were sent during dreams were trusted and valued. In many places, they still are.

Yet where I live in California, which from the rest of the world’s point of view may seem “a dream friendly” sort of place, dreams are pooh-poohed as unimportant, spiritual stuff meant for metaphysical types and not necessarily meant to be remembered. Unimportant. Fluff. (Certainly not stuff that would be used in the Silicon Valley!)

But let’s just take a look at the creativity and changes to our world spawned during dreams.

The novelist Robert Louis Stevenson(1850-1894) described dreams as occurring in “that small theater of the brain which we keep brightly lighted all night long.”

He, by the way, conceived Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in a dream.

Others include…

Paul McCartney’s “Yesterday” was conceived in a dream.

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein came via dream.

Otto Loewi (1873-1961), a German born physiologist, won the Nobel Prize for medicine in 1936 for his work on the chemical transmission of nerve impulses.

Friedrich August Kekulé von Stradonitz is a remarkable figure in the history of chemistry, specifically organic chemistry and made two major discoveries from dreams

Madame C.J. Walker (1867-1919) is cited by the Guinness Book of Records as the first female American self-made millionaire. She was also the first member of her family born free. She had a dream which launched her cosmetic company after losing much of her hair from a scalp infection.

Elias Howe invented the sewing machine in 1845, but had problems making it work which he solved in a dream.

Golfer Jack Nicklaus found a new way to hold his golf club in a dream, which he credits to improving his golf game.

The idea for Misery and many of Stephen King’s other novels came to him in a dream.

There are so many other examples of writers, artists, scientists, entrepreneurs, film makers–you name it–who have injected the creative flow from the night into their daily works and changed the world. A little attention to the subject, supported by a dream journal and a belief that material collected during sleep is valuable, may just be that impetus you need for your next big thing.

And your next big thing can be as basic as understanding how to navigate a conversation. I often dream conversations that show two paths–one that heads down the right way and one that doesn’t. By the time I find myself in that conversation, it’s clear to me which way to go. I’ve learned to stop saying, “I’ve dreamed this” though, because then people look at you funny and excuse themselves to go to the bathroom. Not everybody gets it.

If you’re up for the challenge, put a pad of paper and a pen by your bed tonight. Write this: “Show me what I need to know” along with the date and time. As you fall asleep, say, “I will remember my dreams.” First thing in the morning, jot down any recollection–a symbol, a person who you remember, a feeling you had. That night, go back and read it. It can take a day or two to interpret. And though I’m huge on dream circles (and am so excited to be currently starting one), you will always be your best dream interpreter.

Who knows? You could be holding the solution to a problem that will change the world.

Ode to Max

Even as I type this, I hesitate. Some things just belong in a quiet space, locked up and seen only by the key holder.

Then again, that’s pretty contradictory to all I’m about. I tell my kids to live out loud. I tell my friends to live out loud. I tell my clients to live out loud.  I sure as heck better do it, too.

So I’ll tell you my little secret of the week. I’ve been knee deep in studying metaphysical thinkers, specifically the writings of philosopher Ernest Holmes. Holmes hung out in LA in the 1920s with the likes of Albert Einstein and Ralph Waldo Emerson. He was heavily influenced by Emerson’s writings and thinking. We have that in common because if I could sit and have a glass of Pinot with anybody in the world, it would be Ralph Waldo himself. (Turns out the first guy I kissed–by the same name–is a direct descendant and we used to have long, philosophical discussions back in the 6th grade which he recently reminded me about. Ralph, if you’re reading this, my sister-in-law Susan and I are looking forward to one of those talks Monday after next at Mama’s on Stockton in San Francisco. We owe it to Max.)

I’ve had a passion for original thinkers as long as I can remember. When metaphysics–ie. that which lies beyond what we can see–was introduced to me by Max Fagerquist, I was fascinated. Max was a large man who wore pretty much the same thing every day: a lemon chiffon turtleneck, a brown houndstooth jacket with elbow patches, non-descript slacks, and dusty cowboy boots. Each day he’d twirl a mint with his tongue, his wire rimmed glasses lost in the wildest eyebrows you’ve ever seen. He’d summon us to non-traditional class set ups (circles), with non-traditional questions (“Why ARE we here?” or “Are we really here?”), and challenge our first AP European class ever to explore the meaning of man from a completely unique vantage point. He made a huge impression on me and my friend, Kevin, and I’m sure many other adults who haven’t thought about him for 30 years.

This week, though, he’s very much on my mind. My mom cut out the obituary that said Max had died at age 74 in a care facility. I called the number. There would be no service. I called the high school where he’d taught. Nobody called me back.

In a synchronistic twist, a friend of mine was teaching a class I’ve wanted to take for years. I ran into her at the Ted Talks last week and she said, “I’ve so been thinking about you. I’m teaching this class and I think you’d love it. Come Thursday.”

I went. I had no idea this would be a continuation of AP European history, but there we were. In a circle.  Not teenagers, but 50 (60, 70) somethings.Talking about the meaning of life, metaphysical perspectives, Planet Epistemology. I could feel Max in the room.

The next morning I rose just before dawn and went out back to do my morning meditation. I like to get out there when at least three stars are left in the sky and stay until I can’t see them anymore. It’s my new thing. I closed my eyes and thought about Max–how I wish I’d went to tell him the influence he’d had over my thinking and writing. How I appreciated the risks he took with our class, his belief in us as original thinkers. How he’d encouraged me to find my own way as a writer and not copy others. He taught us how to question, not just accept. He believed we could do it and made us believe it, too.

When I opened my eyes, pink sky had risen above the line of tall oaks at the far back of our property. The stars were still visible. And in front of my face, one foot away was a steely gray hummingbird like the one up above. It reminded me of his eyebrows.

I laughed. “Well hello there.”

My next thought: hummingbirds don’t come out at dawn–do they? I knew it was a Max encounter.

What seemed like 5 minutes passed with fluttering wings just hovering. The sky turned all pink. There was no darting around in normal hummingbird fashion. He just stared at me with beady black eyes.

I listened. Finally he flew away. I felt full of joy.

I told my husband. I told my friend, Kevin. (They may both think I’ve finally lost it, but as I told them both, the older I get, the less I care. I have Max to thank for that.)

Just before I typed this blog (actually during, to be honest) I Googled the meaning of hummingbirds because I wondered, “Why a hummingbird, Max?”

Here’s what I got on my first look:

The hummingbird generally symbolizes joy and playfulness, as well as adaptability. Additional symbolic meanings are:

• Lightness of being, enjoyment of life
• Being more present
• Independence
• Bringing playfulness and joy in your life
• Lifting up negativity
• Swiftness, ability to respond quickly
• Resiliency, being able to travel great distances tirelessly

Now, it’s clear. Thank you, Max, for continuing to be my teacher even now. I can’t wait to see what you have in store for our metaphysics class next week.

Star light, Star bright

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

I spent the fourth of July weekend on Lake Shasta with family this year. We found an isolated cove with a breathtaking view of granite cliffs nestled amongst pines. The natural beauty was intoxicating. The thing that really got me, though, was the sky.

By day, it seemed to stretch on forever, a canopy of violet blue stretched across an infinity frame. By dusk, a soft pink backdrop for bats diving down close to where we lay on the top of the houseboat watching Mother Nature’s previews. The main attraction, though, came at night.

Do you have any idea what goes on in a wide open sky sheltered from city light? It had been years since I’d seen it. Living in LA for 30 years near the beach, we hardly ever saw stars. The city lights and coastal fog swallowed them up. I had grown up with these stars, but I had forgotten their power.

We sat and waited, watching for the first star while playing marshmallow Olympics. (The fish weren’t biting, so we had to find other uses for our mini-friends.) As each star dropped into place, it looked unique, like it had its own purpose on that tapestry. Eventually, the sky was covered. As we all watched the sky from our sleeping bag lookouts on top of the boat, my husband had an idea.

Husband: Hey! I’ll go get the IPAD and we can look at the galaxies through that app.

Me: Oh. Hmmmm. Okay. (Technology can’t make this better, I thought. Why does he want to ruin this with technology?)

Cousins: Oh. What? (On the fence. Not sure about what he’s talking about.)

Me: Are you going to get it?

Husband: No. Not enough enthusiasm to go down the ladder.

Me: (Not wanting to break his techno-spirit) Oh, come on. It’ll be cool.

Husband: Nope.

All of us: DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!

Husband: Okay. If you really want me to.

He pads down the treacherous houseboat ladder and returns armed with the IPAD telescope. Holding the IPAD up to the sky we could not only see the names of all the stars, we could see the overlays of zodiac images. It was fascinating on so many levels. We loved it. It added a whole new layer to what we were seeing. After everybody had a chance to play with it, we put it away and stared back at sky original.

As each person faded off one by one, faint snoring sounds filling the night air, I laid there wide awake. How could there be so much up in that sky? One after another satellite passed by. I had no idea how many were up there. Shooting star after shooting star streaked the black. Most amazing to me was how different the night sky was from the day. How unique. And how so many layers performed in a night time drama I’ll never forget.

And while you ask yourself “What does this have to do with writing?,” I’ll tell you what I got from the whole thing. Each artist, each creator, shines uniquely like those individual stars. They have a unique body of work inside them that they have been sent here to do, and though many factors may pull them away from it, if they listen to their intuition, they will find their True North. The compilation of those works create life’s night sky, so captivating it can keep the world up at night if it looks closely.

Young Stars

Is it just me or are 8th graders getting smarter? They read more, they write deeper, and having sat through a plethora of ceremonies this past week including my youngest son’s, I can tell you they speak like they’ve been attending Toastmasters for years.

I live in a small town where I grew up (then left for 30 years, then came back 4 years ago) and many of these kids are somehow related to people I know. There are really no degrees of separation. This makes watching them grow that much more intriguing.

At my son’s graduation yesterday, and the awards assembly a few days before that, students got up to talk in front of a packed out auditorium. That, in itself, is enough to drive many adults running for the hills. But these students, who’d written their own very impressive speeches, spoke flawlessly. One girl even tripped on her way up the stage, gracefully pulled herself together, and gave a perfect speech. What an example!

Teachers read some of the students poems. They wrote of Paris, and of Audrey Hepburn, topics you don’t anticipate from kids growing up in an unincorporated cowboy town. It made me happy we’d moved back and decided to have our youngest go through this school system. I was blown away by the talent at such young ages. The insight. (Not to get all verklempt, but my baby has actually been published in a national poetry anthology since 6th grade thanks to his teacher who believed in his talent and submitted his poem several years back.)

Call it Indigo-Crystal influence, call it evolution–call it a generation looking to the next with Pollyanna glasses. Whatever label you want to throw, I’m inspired. I’m inspired by their sensitivity, wisdom, and insight. I’m inspired by their creativity, their bravery, and their naivete up against this all-knowing background. By their talent. By their ability to mix enthusiastic youth with the adult sensibilities they need to go through to make these life changes with grace.

It makes me realize my characters in my current YA are not rounded enough to reflect these young adults. I need to honor them more, because from where I observe, they truly are remarkable and they deserve it.

The Ear Behind the Ear

Last week at my son’s orthodontist appointment, I ran into my banker’s wife, Eden, and her kids (not literally if you’re following my recent collision with an anxious mom in the school parking lot.) Eden had coordinated both kids for same time appointments (pure brilliance for sure) and that left us sitting in the nearby spectator section watching dental games and chatting over the sound of drills. You find your social time (and venue) where you can when you’re a mom.

When Eden’s youngest was done, she plopped into the conversation and announced, “Let’s play I Spy.” After about five minutes of spying drills, I needed a new game. I waited for my turn and said “I hear with my little ear…” She jerked her head around, looked up at me, and paused. Then with typical 8 year old flex, she started to play along. We listened to all the sounds  which were suddenly so much louder when we really paid attention.

I wondered how much I miss by rolling through my news feed and checking my emails in line at the grocery store. We live in a multitasking world, do we not? I remembered why I had studied martial arts for years (other than to sweat like a pig and collapse from exhaustion/pain at night.) It was to listen better. Not only to the sounds from the ear, but as Michael Bernard Beckwith says in Life Visioning, “the ear behind the ear.”

I love that. It makes me think back to an English assignment in Mrs. Farrar’s 8th grade class where I had to sit outside and write down everything I heard. I found a swamp out in back of my friend Laurie’s house where we loved to explore. I sat on a cement slab and absorbed myself in the orchestra of crickets, distant mowers, evening birds and quiet. I think that’s where I heard it very loudly, that quiet voice. It told me I was going to be a writer.

Each of us has it, this quiet voice. It has wisdom, and knowing, and our best intentions at heart always. It’s smarter than anything we seek outside of us. All we need to do is calm the monkey mind, listen, and it will whisper.