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Courage is Calling

Last night the frustration was so thick I had
to leave my house, change locations and breathe
a bit so I could pick my way through its density.

It had been a late afternoon or evening that
could have caused me to feel defeated. I wasn’t
defeated, though. It felt more like a foreshock
of an earthquake, if there is such a thing.

It was like the stretch before waking of that
sleeping giant nestled in dream-land alongside
my heart and my lungs.

This morning I sat on my front porch and my
pencil in hand, watching the steam rising from
my coffee into the soft early morning light,
still bent a bit so not quite as forceful
as I knew it would become far too quickly.

Last night, I walked out of a familiar restaurant
and started crying. Not mere tears running down
my face, but flat out, full-force, gut shaking sobs.
If I had been at home, I would have fallen to
my knees and screamed out. In the moon-lit parking
lot, I gave myself space to gulp, to flail my
arms around to find the handle to my car door
which I could no longer see due to the
blinding of the salt from my tears.

I crumbled into the seat and let the
tears do their thing.

Ten minutes later, I dried my face and smiled,
satisfied and content.

Ten minutes after the new sun-rays became
adolescent and they argued with the steam
rising from my coffee, making it disappear,
erasing it from my view. I frowned: I had
been enjoying watching it rise towards heaven.

God sent a breeze to remind me of the words
from Ecclesiastes and the song from the Byrds,
which collaborated to sing, “To everything (turn,
turn, turn), There is a season (turn, turn, turn),
And a time for every purpose, under heaven…A time
to laugh, a time to weep…A time to dance, a
time to mourn, A time to cast away stones,
a time to gather stones together.”

God is funny. I smiled up at him, laughed
a little.

I wanted to write about last night’s tears again.
I started to ask a question in my notebook.

“Were last years tears about…” and a quick “no”
came off the pencil tip.

I know what they were about – they were about
being brave. About knowing what you know and acting,
even when it is frightening. The tears were about
processing, about permitting myself to feel what
I needed to feel – and the push towards
conscious action.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote, “Courage is a first
step, but simply to bear the blow bravely is not
enough. Stoicism is courageous, but it is only
a half way house on the long road.”

I let go of the stoicism. It is time to link
arms with courage and move forward.

What about for you?

Are you ready to link your arm with courage
and move forward, too?

Don’t answer right away. Take a moment to consider
the power of this question, individualized for you.

Listen now as your heart brings a situation into
your consciousness, one you may have been looking
at with too bright or two forceful a light, so you
couldn’t see the steam rising.

What if you listened and looked with a more fresh,
bent light or even under the light of only
the moon and stars?

Invite that light to come into your presence,
quietly. Invite it now, and then wait to hear
its message for you.

Where in your life are you ready to link your
arm with courage and move forward?

There is a time for peace, calling you now.

Link your heart with courage and move forward.

This essay was originally published in Daily Passion Activator, Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

April 30, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Don't Die with Your Words Still Inside You - WRITE for your life...

Many of you know I am about
as passionate for writing as
anyone you may have met.

One of my aims is to see
that everyone who wants to
write actually puts pencil
to paper and gets those
words down.

Too often people die
with their words tucked
away inside them.

This literally causes
me physical pain... so I
decided to do something
to stop it... and that
became my latest writing class:

"Write for Your Life"

Find out more by clicking
the link below....

Write the words only YOU can write.
Don't die with your words still inside you.

April 28, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (0)

The Joy of Daily (Re)Birthing

Last night Sandy, my dog who died five
years ago, came to me in my sleep. I have
been doing dream work, so it is not surprising me
to see dream-images repeated from the past
and the revisiting of those who were important
to me from long ago who still are important,
just are no longer present on the physical plane.

I also rediscovered one of my older writing
notebooks yesterday. It is partially filled.
Most of its pages are covered with my writing.

Another even older notebook is filled with lots
of white space rather than what fills my newer
notebooks: page after page after page of my written
words, collected in rows and rows and rows like
children lined up in a school yard, ready
to enter the classroom.

These early notebooks include scribbles from
then pre-school aged Emma, knowing she wanted
to be heard on the page and not sure how to
contain her voice on paper. She knew Mommy did something
with paper everyday while holding a pen, so her
duets with my words are common in those
earlier notebooks.

She knew this particular structure or practice
took place right there. She knew Mommy's love was
write there, too. The pun and play
on words is intended.

I knew then as I know now, there is a glorious
gift when I start and continue my practices daily.
There is something energetically and spiritually
rewarding when I write here and now right here and now.
Even when there is some initial begrudging filling
my reluctant hand, I know joy is in the participation
and moving through the lack of enthusiasm.

My notebooks are now almost always close to filled or
completely filled.

I added a walking practice to my daily mix.

This morning I really didn't want to put on my
sneakers and hit the road. My calendar is tight,
there was so much to do, why on Earth did I want
to go out there and spend some of my precious time moving
my already tired muscles. I put on my logical,
rationalizing hat and thought, "I exercised so much
in rehearsal yesterday I even have a blister on
my toe as a badge of metabolism rising honor. I don't
need to walk today."

On that day, copper colored Sandy came to me, wagging his
little stumpy tale and said, "Yes, please?" with his big
brown blinking eyes. I couldn't resist his
loving desire.

I put on his leash and we walked north, up the hill.

I almost turned down a residential street instead of
heading to the bluffs but my heart said, "Forward."
I heaved a huge, "Woe is me"
sigh and reluctantly agreed.

Off we went to the bluffs with the bunnies and the
brush and the wildly growing weeds and the salamanders
and a beautifully coiffed older woman. A man was with
her today. His tattooed forearm glistened. She
smelled marvelous.

Sandy and I smiled, nodded and spoke our greetings
and kept moving.

I inhaled incredible aromas which oozed through
the air from the weeds and wildflowers dotting
the landscape. The natural perfume was thick and
heady. The dirt path showed footprints of those who
had walked and jogged here before us.

Gladness swelled and lathered in my soul.

We kept moving.

We turned towards home and Sandy got the message
to really relish each sniff. I paused to give him
space. "Was a coyote here last night, my friend?"
I asked him. A young woman wearing scrubs – most
likely just off her night shift – came towards
us. She captured weariness in her averted eyes
and loosely held water bottle.

"Good morning" I sang. She responded, still
unable to connect with her eyes.

I blessed her silently.

Sandy sniffed back towards me. We kept moving.

We crossed busy Panorama Drive and the Divine
delivered. Right on time, as always, into my now
fully awake center. I was nudged into action and
chose to move forward. It was because of my practiced
listening I fully received the message.

Tears filled my eyes.

How wondrous it is for each of us to be rebirthed
each new day, as perhaps you are in reading these
words – many of which were first written almost
five years ago.

Sandy came back to me in my dreams and on the page,
perhaps, to speak with you for a moment.

The writing is what kept him here, alive, vibrant,
remembered.

Writing says, “Take note” and “Hold close” and “Everything
is present in this present, nothing is ever lost – not in
a ‘forever’ sense.”

You and words and words and you are important.

Be open today to the words which want to be born
and reborn through you.

This essay was originally published in Daily Passion Activator, Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

April 28, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Passion for the Page

“A book is like a garden carried in the pocket.”
~ Chinese proverb ~

My response reminded me of the way it used
to be when Sear’s Wish Book arrived at our
house in the middle of October. The children
in our family would covet the catalog, each
of us taking a turn slowly paging through
the colorful photos, pointing out our
likes and rare dislikes.

I don’t think I ever got to look at it first,
being the fourth child, I rarely got
anything first.

It was the squeal which burst from deep
inside of me and my overwhelming excitement
as I pointed took me right back to those
old days wishing, wishing, wishing.

“Turn here, turn here!” I shouted as Tony
drove us down Mall View Road. I had noticed
the doors opening and closing, people
carrying large shopping bags with them.

Katherine rolled her eyes in angst
filled resignation.

Emma counter suggested, “Don’t turn,
don’t turn!”

The car turned anyway, as if by the same
magic that carries the sleigh of Santa Claus,
and I negotiated with my daughters. “Just
give me ten minutes. Time me if you must.
That is all I will spend – ten minutes.”

I paused just enough to add what I found
so appealing, “You can get something, too.”

With that, I catapulted myself out the door
and into the store which was once
a neighborhood craft store.

What was taking place inside?

The object of my sheer delight was a
used book sale. It is one of the the largest
of its kind locally and is held annually to
benefit the ASPCA.

Last year I bought an enormous box
of books when I went by myself.

This was opening day and I could not
be more thrilled.

I went immediately to the classics and
poetry before moving to the biography
section. It was there my eyes spotted
one of my long desired, not-as-well
known books, waiting patiently for my attention.

I gasped as I reached for it, putting the
book to my chest and breathing in
a combination of sweet satisfaction
and disbelief.

I looked around, nervously, convinced
a book as phenomenal as this one might
be grabbed right out of my arms by
another adoring fan.

“I am done, I am done!” I said to Katherine,
who told me I still had another sixty seconds
or so. “No, I am fine, I will just take these.”

I had a pile which included Kahlil Gibran, Joan
Didion, William Blake, Shakespeare and this
prize, a copy of Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s
“Hour of Gold, Hour of Lead.”

My daughters had to leave me on my own
when I started talking to whomever would
listen about this glorious book, had they
read it? Had they read any of Anne Morrow
Lindbergh’s books? Would they like to start?

I was sharing this story with Coryn today, when
I added, “You know, it is exactly the sort of
people who go to used book sales that would
understand my undying passion and delight
at finding this book.” Coryn imitated another
bookish person, scribbling down the title,
ignited by my passion for all-things-
Anne-Morrow-Lindbergh-and-daughter’s
write, because I had to mention Reeve
and daughter Anne as well.

I managed to stop myself from sharing
my sorrow involving the aging and death
of mother Anne through daughter Reeve. It
might be because it was because at that
moment I was paying my fee for all the
gems I had purchased.

That was two days ago and since then,
I have read thirty four pages of “Hour of
Gold” and 88 pages of Joan Didion’s
“The Year of Magical Thinking.”

Both books discussed – at the heart level –
death, loss, and grief.

How could I find myself enjoying them
so much, books on such topics?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning knows this
book love of mine. She wrote of it like this:

"We gloriously forget ourselves and plunge
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound,
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth --
'T is then we get the right good from a book."

The salt of truth in these titles is more
like a feast.

I don’t think I will ever be hungry again.

= + =

Julie Jordan Scott is a Writer, Life Coach, Poet,
Speaker, Actor, Director and Mom Extraordinaire
whose deepest passion is helping people -
like you - discover and live with passion.
Call 661.444.2735 to book your complimentary
coaching session.

This essay was originally published in Daily Passion Activator, Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

April 27, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (0)

April 22: How to Connect with Your Soul through Writing with Passion

Today at 1 PM Pacific time I will be leading a Teleseminar
along with my friend, Adela Rubio....

It is going to be a blast... below is a list of some
of what we will be covering in this value packed,
one hour session....

"How to Connect with Your Soul through Writing"

1. Discover how to use writing as a tool to self-discovery
2. Bring to light areas of "stuckness" in your creativity
3. Engage in exercises to facilitate change now
4. Burst through blocks to creativity and success
5. Learn how to use writing as a means to build your business while effectively taking care of yourself.
6. Realize your natural abilities to be an "Artist of Life" even if you never thought you would call yourself an artist.

http://www.selfcaremastery.com/julie

April 22, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (0)

When Photography and Poetry Merge

I have a penchant for taking not-so-great stuff that happens and making it almost passable through engaging in a different creative process.

In this case, my camera got stolen during tech week of "The Winter's Tale" so yesterday I took some recent poetry and merged it with some of my photography.

I appreciate the results.

The Basement, a local art gallery here in Downtown Bakersfield, has an art show coming up which also helped with the inspiration. "One Thousand Words: Photography, Film, and Literature" spurred me on, further.

I would enjoy your feedback as well. What do you think?

If you need to see this in a larger version (which would not fit on this blog) simply click the image and you will be taken to the flickr.com site so you may see a larger view.)

Julie also publishes the Daily Passion Activator, Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

April 21, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (0)

When Words are Left Behind

It was the end of Spring break and tech week
for “The Winter’s Tale”. The last ten days were
rapidly fading in memory. They left behind a tired,
soul aching me, sitting at my porch desk as
the day faded.

I had no words left.

Instead of conventional language I had three blobs
of paint on a paper plate palette, a brush, water
and a piece of paper I had torn angrily into four
more-or-less equal pieces.

Samuel and I had arrived home to an empty house
following a trip to the Los Angeles airport. We
were held tightly during eight hour round trip
(due to traffic) into a cocoon in the back seat
of a small car. He sat peacefully watching
a hand-held GPS device while I allowed thoughts
to flicker and flow through me and eventually
brought me to this speechless frustration-laden perch on
my front porch that commanded me “Paint!
Without question.”

“P!A!I!N!T!”

So I did exactly that. I just painted.

I dipped my brush into the blue-ish blob and
added a touch of red and the speechless frustration
turned into groaning, angry, somewhat muffled
choking as I put the odd-colored paint onto the
page and became even angrier at what I created.

“This is not the color I wanted,” my soul lamented
silently. From my lips came words I didn’t know were
there. “I hate you, oh how I hate you. I h a t e you!”

Where was "this" coming from, I wondered, and what was
"this" talking about, why was I so angry and what
did I hate?

These questions rose up and washed away as I splattered
color and water on one square and it leaped onto the
other squares, skittering and scattering from the
tempestuousness of my brush beating.

I rinsed my brush, dried it and dabbled into a sweet
shade of yellow. I made a box, wanting to practice
the shapes and lines as called on by one of my
\book-learning-painting teachers. I met with
success-failure and kept painting.

My anger met my breath and I mixed my intention
with the paper, water and color, making brush shaped
rectangles of orangey-red and then yellow-y orange.
My square-once-house became a pastoral scene.

I felt peace rising.

I continued. I continued again and again, two more
times. I painted what came, painted what I felt. I sat
there, painting, painting, painting.

It felt like hours had passed and it felt like
no time had passed.

What happened next surprised me.

I reached out to the initial attempt at painting. When
I wasn’t looking, the angry, blue-ish blob that
overflowed with contempt had become something
beautiful.

It had become beauty itself.

Edgar Degas said it like this: “Only when he no longer
knows what he is doing does the painter do good things.”

Even if the only person ever impacted by this painting
spree at my porch desk is me, it was and is and will
continue to be a good thing.

“Good thing” doesn’t begin to express it.

Georgia O’Keeffe reminds me in her words, “I found I
could say things with color and shapes that I couldn't
say any other way--things I had no words for.”

This painting episode was different than anything I
had ever felt. The “must paint” feeling was overwhelming,
stronger than any other creative call I have ever
had – perhaps because I needed to listen to the
message from the paint.

I needed to be the speaker, the conduit, the artist,
the audience, the emcee, the chorus, the straight-man
and be none of these because the paint overtook
everything. It merged with my emotion: it became anger
and frustration. The brush and the paint and the water
and the paper were as much a part of me as my skin,
my blood, my muscles, my bones.

Tears came and washed everything “just right”.

Tears didn’t wash it clean because clean and dirty
aren’t relevant.

Comparison – in the moment – doesn’t matter, it is
needless. It no longer carries the markings of meaning
because tears came and washed everything into a
wordless version of “just right”.

I don’t need language dense words to know the exact
word-language definition of “just right” because I
am intimate, on a soul level, with the wordless
“just right”.

I don’t need language dense words to step into the
questions the paint answered so vividly for me,
for you, for us.

It is as it is, raw and unedited – unmolded,
without words, just right.

This essay was originally published in Daily Passion Activator, Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

April 14, 2009 | Permalink | Comments (0)