Julie Unplugged

Julie's Adventures in Fast-Writer-Land

From time to time I visit a blog called "The One Minute Writer" (I will give you a link in a minute! Read through this first, my loves!)

Usually I use it when I am stuck or can't think of anything to write.

On the blog there are both simple writing prompts and a timer. The point of the sight is simply to read the prompt and then write from it for sixty seconds. That is it.

I usually copy it into a notepad file, clean and clear of words and then I start to write, directly onto my keyboard.

My life-work since I returned (early) from my trip this Summer follows the theme of "Completion" and the struggles I have had, feeling as if my life has... for a lot of it... been literally and metaphorically "stillborn", especially since the birth/death of my daughter, Marlena.

She would be nineteen if she was alive. So yes, it has been a while.

A seemingly innocuous prompt appeared on my screen:

"Write about something you made as a child"

I clicked the timer and started writing. This is what came up.

When I was a child I tried to learn to sew.

 

Mom always finished my projects.

 

My speed, or lack thereof, frustrated her.

 

It made me feel not so very good, couldn't finish stuff, wasn't good enough or was too slow or whatever.

 

She would always scoop up my project and complete it HER way, which made me hesitate to start anything OR hesitate to put anything down.

 

I wanted to finish things my way.

 

Wow. This tells me a lot.

 

I was unprepared to discover how many people share similar stories from their lives – both as the child and as the parent. I have had similar occasions with my children. Thankfully I am conscious enough to stop much of the time, but when I cross the line the experience tickles my gut. I sometimes ignore the tickling and keep moving forward, anyway.

 

This simple, innocuous, one minute prompt engaged the memory.

 

My job is to continue to grow the memory with words so that it becomes more fleshy yet stays simple and precise enough to retain its grit and finds a place to land in the memory of readers.

 

Yesterday I wrote about calling the police and today I wrote about growth.

 

Here is what I said this time:

 

In what way have you grown the most in the last year?

 

I have grown as an artist. I have grown in my skills and grown in my listening.

 

I have grown as a mother.

 

I have grown as a traveler.

 

I have learned to be hungry and not have to rush in and take that hunger away. I have been more hungry this year than in many of the past years and - this is actually a good thing. Odd, it may sound odd, but it is empowering, too.

 

Creatively, my painting. Ohh, my wordlessness. (Funny for a writer to say that, but wordlessness is such a gift.)

 

Trusting the lack of words and leaning into it.

 

I have grown, that way.

 

It isn’t brilliant writing, necessarily – but it is a fruitful beginning, a just right seed.

 

And yes, here is the link.

 

Write, Write, Write!

Listen, Act and Look, Without Words

It's intriguing the way assignments come barreling

through the ethers insisting, "Write this" and "paint

that" and "grab your camera NOW and take a

photo of this! Don’t miss this shot!"

 

I like to think a lot of my creativity is about

listening and following assignments like these.

 

It happened twice last night, one time immediately

after I left rehearsal for "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof"

and another time after I got home.

 

You see, I find the most gratification when I follow

the instructions, when I write, paint, take photos –

when I act without question.

 

Last night I followed the nudge to photograph the

sunset and then, once home, to make what I thought

was something but it turned into something else.

 

 

I took my water colors down from their spot on the

top of the refrigerator and started playing with

water and color.

 

That was when I noticed some of the tiniest hairs

from my paint brush had fallen off and were caught

in the paint on my page.

 

It frustrated me, how it bothered me!

 

I went to bed thinking I had out smarted the

paint-brush-hairs.

 

Today I look closely and see they are still there,

straddling the paint, holding their beer steins of

presence high. On second observation, they look

like a dancer's legs, without the benefit of a torso.

 

 

They might be hiding in this photo - but believe me, they are there.

 

I see two more renegade strands from the paint

brush adorn the painting. One is a cartoon caption

bubble, the other one is almost a treble cleft.

 

The paper bends in the right hand corner,

refusing to be tamed.

 

 

I realize now I want to frame this page, this

painting originally intended to be an art

journal background.

 

I was going to slice it up, into sections,

and add words to its pinkness.

 

I don't want to add words anymore.

 

There are enough words with no words.

 

I don't have to follow my plan at all because

I am on a divine assignment. I just move the

materials, take a deep breath, and watch

the rest unfold.

 

 

See? 

 

There are more than enough words with no words.

 

 

 

 

Essays like this are published in Daily Passion Activator, Julie's long running ezine which is delivered directly into your email box - Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

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Witnessing the World through Writing from the Sense of Sight

I am in the midst of a Summer Writing Intensive Camp and as the leader, I enjoy contributing and writing alongside the others though I have to do my writing after our “Campfire Calls” are over.

This is not camp as you remember it - we are meeting via teleconferencing, each of us creating our "camp experience" virtually. No travel, muss or fuss and a lot of the pleasure... as writers gather across the world to create separately yet together.

 

This morning we wrote about witnessing the world with words using the sense of sight.

Once our campfire was over, I wrote my own witness using a photo as my guide.

I thought I would post my writing here, as an example, so those of you who write  may benefit from the processes the folks at camp are experiencing.

 

Writing prompts don't have to be long or complex.

Your writing prompt may be something as simple as “I see”, which is what I used. In fact, you may even use the same photograph as me, which I will include in color at the end of this post.

 

“I see a tree with a tire swing attached. I can barely make out my son’s legs sticking out as he leans back and spins, gently, unobtrusively. The barren tree, leafless, looks full of protective life and not as barren as at first glance. My “bird’s eye view” is Sam’s legs, the path. My feet are grounded on a different level, once which I know from experience is muddy and murky. My feet might sink a bit deeper when I adventure down there.

“From this perspective, the tree seems to reach out to hug Sam. I can almost hear her saying, “There, there,” as she knows Sam’s tears from someday in the future. The boulders lining the walls of Earth say “We will contain some of what you let go, Tree. We will hold it here for you to witness, perhaps grieve less for those leaves you let go, those leaves which return to dust.

"My view is only in black and white with variations of grey, like fog. Like depression, Like the heaviness of “too much to do” the stuff that blocks the beauty, that blots it out, that crushes it.

"I wonder what I would describe differently if I were to see this photo in color?"

 

Now it is your turn. Here is the photo, in color.

 

 

What do you see? Prompt - I SEE....

 

Now, Write! Write! Write!

 

Because life is better when you learn some new songs....

Every time I create something new, I know it is a hit when I have a ridiculously fun time during the creative process.

Today, I realized that since I was going to have my Summer Writing Intensive Campers sing a song, I better take the time to teach them... away from our writing session.

So, I decided to use my audio acrobat and create a song-lesson. And then I got crazier (if that is at all possible for me!) and decided to share that with all of you, out there, who aren't attending the Writing Intensive.

This is simply too much fun NOT to share with the world.....

Every camp fire has to have a camp song, right? Well, at Writing Intensive Summer Camp, we are able to learn about rhythm and cadence and voice in writing, too, through singing our camp song.

This song is simple to learn, simple to sing and some of you make know it now, before we even begin.

One final note - I mistakenly used the word "some" in my first explanation and then when I spoke it, I realized the word is ONE not SOME.

Your lyrics:

Make new friends but keep the old
One is silver and the other's gold

(Remember to enjoy the heck out of this - I know I did.)

YAY! You sounded GREAT! *laughter*

Shameless Plug alert - if you think this is fun? You might want to try out our live sessions.... Camp starts again on August 10. Writers, especially....consider being a part of it.

Check it out here.

A Room of Our Own, Virginia?

It started with a Journaling Prompt.

 

It amuses me how often my insights arrive, first, in the form of a prompt or a question that floats from the ethers of some reading material or another… or in the guise of creating art, itself.

 

That is my personal favorite. I think I am in rehearsal, preparing for “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” but actually, I am in my own personal development bubble. If I dared admit that, my cast mates might get angry at my selfishness, so I keep it quiet.

 

I find my best acting work comes, though, when I recognize this and use it.

 

I digress.

 

On the Blissjournaling_Art_Yahoogroup came a prompt:

 

Journal about your workspace or where you do most of your journaling. Draw it, paint it, take a picture... show us where you create :-))

 

Immediately two things came mind. I thought of Virginia Woolf’s book, “A Room of One’s Own” and my lack of a room of my own.

 

I responded:

 

I read this prompt and felt really sad. One of my gripes is I don't have any
space of my own, specifically for me to create within and... yeah, it bothers me to a certain extent.

Last Winter I created a writing space.  It is an excellent writing space.
I love my little space on my front porch. In the Summer I have to get out there
early or it gets too hot... and I can't imagine bringing paints and glues and
stuff out there, so for now, I take out my glitter and glue and scissors and paint and work quickly at the kitchen table and then put everything away quickly again.

One of my goals - have a place where I am able to have a space of my own.
I have no idea when that will happen, but I have it as a goal, anyway.

 

It took about thirty six hours before a shift started to take place.

 

Writing is what I call my "anchor art" and words are my primary love affair. My journals are my true work space.

I was starting a new journal and decided to created this cover from
words out of an old English textbook and poetry by Mary Oliver. This morning I shot some photos.

 

I used old English text book pages, words from Mary Oliver’s Long Life and some glitter. It felt cleansing to create and this morning, when I sat down to write, it definitely felt like coming home, to my work space.

 

 

There, that felt good!

 

It always does to shift from lack – and what is “missing” – to the truth of abundance and wholeness.

Essays like this are published in Daily Passion Activator, Julie's long running ezine which is delivered directly into your email box - Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

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Summer Writing Intensive Camp Heats Up Creative Fires...

I have been busily preparing for the August Intensive Writing Camp and let me tell you - it is shaping up to be an extraordinary time with extraordinary people participating from all across the world.

You may wonder:"What is this like, going to camp while at home?"

Well, it is different - and in many ways better because you actually get to create your entire experience according to what suits your personality.

Some of us will create our camps in the forest, others will create camps at the beach and maybe some will stay in deserts or valleys.

I have created Camp Stations for our experience together.

There will be - -

The Hiking Path:

Writing Prompts for Reflection, Exploration and Integration

Game Field:

Playful Activities for Reflection, Exploration and Integration

The Tent:

Space to Share with Your Writing Buddy or Solo - Listening to Divine Inspiration in Your Writing

and ofcourse, The Camp Fire....

Where we will gather, grow, express gratitude and gain lessons, practice and laugh..laugh... laugh....

Our August session starts this coming Monday and our September Writing Intensive Retreat Session begins September 14. The price for either sessions (or you may register for both) is only $27. Ridiculously low priced.

To register right here and now:

 For more details, Click Here Now.

Love, Forgiveness, and Shattered Glass

I recently had a falling out with a friend of mine.

I can not express with words the pain such a thing
causes me. It is like a shattered vase throws shards
and splintered nuggets of glass from the center of
my gut out into all parts of my body.

When I was a little girl, I had more friends than
I could count on my hands and feet. I was known
to be the child to receive the most greeting
cards in the classroom box, I was invited to the
most parties, little boys included me where no
other girls were included.

Then fifth grade came along and a large chunk
of my collected friends decided they didn’t
want to be my friends anymore. There was no
reason other than we were entering that
rocky phase of prepubescence when things
like cool clothes and looking exactly like
the preferred norm became essential.

I recovered, but not before I felt that
shattered vase feeling, shattered glass
shards everywhere.

In seventh grade, one of my closest friends
who survived the fifth grade desertion, decided
she didn’t want to be my friend and dragged a
bunch of my other remaining friends along with her.

That was the year I got sick and wasn’t in
school for nearly a month.

The vase shattered again, and it shattered with
such a force it made me physically ill. I would
return to school and get ill again. My mother
finally took me to the doctor who prescribed
me some muscle relaxants which made me retreat
into sleep. I eventually made it back to school
with less weight on my frame from all the sickness
but with internal scars so deep they are probably
a part of my ongoing experiences which some of
my friends label “an unbelievable inferiority
complex – really, Julie, really?”

When I was in high school – by then I had moved
to another town, a place where no one knew me in
fifth or seventh grade - our choir had a mock-awards
event.  Awards were given for the opposite of what
you actually were. I got the “Meanest Person Award”
because I was ridiculously nice to everyone. I think
my secret trick to being ridiculously nice was
I never got caught up in cliques.

I also never got particularly close to anyone so
I wouldn’t risk the shattering of the vase again.
I had learned my lesson. “Don’t get too
close or pain will result.”

When glass shatters internally, it hurts.

Even if the shattering glass is a metaphor, it
still cuts, deeply.

Here is where it gets more interesting.

I have had fallings out with the majority of my
closest friends. I have felt the shattering glass
in my chest, in my gut, in my skin – and we have
managed to work through those tough times and
rebuilt our loving friendships, made them even
stronger because we knew the pain we risked in
letting our loving friendships die was worse
than these pains because they were forever pains.

In forgiveness, we find the pain of the shattered
glass is remembered by the scars it leaves, but
the strength gained from those scars makes them
both worth the pain and strikingly beautiful
as well. It is as Robert Muller said, “To forgive
is the highest, most beautiful form of love. In
return, you will receive untold peace
and happiness.”

Another great thinker, Ovid, wrote this: “If
you want to be loved, be lovable.”

If you shift the love-focus on forgiveness,
you may look at Ovid’s words with a slight
difference. “If you want to be loved,
be forgiving.”

“If you want to be forgiven, be lovable.”

I have forgiven my friend. Once I did, once I
let go and fell backwards into that featherbed
feeling of acceptance, peace was there to hold me.

My friend doesn’t understand my responses now.
It is confusing to him.

I think I will quote Ovid, repeatedly, and
see what happens.

I didn’t write this essay today because I felt
compelled to write it for personal reasons, it
was one of those divine nudge things. Before
I even got out of bed this morning I knew I
was to write of love. It was later in the
day that I came to understand I was to
write about forgiveness.

I am not sure which one of you needs this
the most today – perhaps it isn’t even
one of you directly – perhaps it is for
someone you know. Nonetheless, I knew I
needed to write and more specifically, I
needed to write this: precisely this.

Take time now, and over the next several
days, to contemplate and act according
to the words from Ovid (and me):

“If you want to be loved, be lovable.”

“If you want to be loved, be forgiving.”

“If you want to be forgiven, be lovable.”

= = =  © 2009 = = =  Julie Jordan Scott

Essays like this are published in Daily Passion Activator, Julie's long running ezine which is delivered directly into your email box - Why not Subscribe today? It's free.

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I live my life....Creative Every Day Self / Rilke / You / Me / Falcon,Song,Storm

It has been a busy week, a complex week, a growing week. I have been in that “doing-being simultaneously” space. I love it when I inhabit life from that perspective. It is like wearing a pair of jeans that both look good and feel good. I can wear them out to a favorite restaurant for dinner and then tromp around out doors in them, sharing a bottle of wine with a friend under the stars, talking and laughing and laughing and talking.

 

I have continued to work on my Collage featuring the Rainer Rilke poem “I live life in growing orbits” yet I found several different translations. It was as if I were a tree and my owner was using a machine to pump air and water and nutrients to my parched roots and I felt it all the way to my outer branches, the leaves – each and every one, brighter, more filled with water and life.

 

Who would have thought a couple slight variations in wording would have such an impact?

 

What metaphor do you see, feel, hear in these words?

 

Perhaps some visuals will help. Watch the process unfold, just watch. Take a moment and breathe and look at each version of the collage.

 

 

Early in the process (around July 11) basically art from children's books, collaged with one translation of the Rilke Poem written by my hand, on the paper.

 

I see the little girl as a physical embodiment of my daughter, who died at birth. And the "everything else" as myself... in relationship to her.

 

 

Here, mid process - you see the addition of feathers collected in Walla Walla Washington by Samuel, glitter and more Modge Podge, giving the collage a decoupage feel and a darker feel. I noticed as I went along it started feeling a lot heavier - which makes sense.

 

Again, so many metaphors I can barely keep track.

 

And then, there was the addition of language - words - and the great glitter accident.

 

 

And I started writing, using my own words more, perhaps because these words were so obliterated by the glitter!

 

Once there was a falcon who opened her

wings and flew higher than she thought

she could, higher than her husband thought

she could, higher than the yellow

haired, slump shouldered critic-woman who

whispered her name with hate-laced

vowels thought she could. Her children

knew she could fly that high, so she took

them with her, the laughter of her family

echoing across the mountains and

valleys, the rivers - and they heard God

sounds.

 

God sounds. God sounds.

 

God sounds.

 

Once there was a storm that brewed in the

spirit of the collective. The storm

was windy, and loud, and exciting. A Quiet

Witness sat alongside the edge and

said, "Am I you?" The thunder shouted a

languageless response. "Are you me?" The

wind made her hair cover her eyes so she

couldn't see. "Are we one?" Drops of

rain created a river and whisked her off

the cloud, back to Earth, where she

could do her work....

 

Once there was a great song who watch the

falcon soar and heard the God sounds made

from the laughter of the family, the mountains,

the valleys, the rivers. It listened, silently,

to the wind, the thunder, the languageless

communication in the raindrops and the tenacity

of the zephyr. The Quiet Witness heard it all and translated it

so others could tune into the notes, the breath,

the movement of the fingers and the bodies and the

mouths as the people took what divinity delivered

and made beauty from it.

 

The great song replied to the quiet witness: Yes, you

are, yes, he and she is, yes we are.”

 

The falcon stood still on a tree branch high atop

the mountain.

 

The storm paused, still, and waited for its next

nudging.

 

The song inside and outside the quiet witness played on,

so everyone would feel peace, calm and know to trust

the unknowing because it is you and he and she and we.

 

The Quiet Witness smiled.

 

= = =

I realized I could lift some of the glitter off using tape (a happy accident) but when I looked at the finished product, I realized I wanted to use my solution, anyway - of including typed copies of my own words as a counterpart to Rilke's - in German - and the translators, in English.

 

 

 

So, I added my words, typed, and loved the final outcome.. which I am going to frame, actually, and hang on my wall.

 

:-)

 

Thank you, as always, Mary Oliver....

I have been working with the concept of completion this month. I like to see it as “becoming intimate” with completion AND its relative, incompletion.

I have one specific relationship I have concluded I am complete with, it has clearly run its course. I don’t think I have anything else to learn from him and I think he has pretty much let me know he doesn’t choose to learn anything else from me.

Once I accepted this reality, I felt so upbeat and optimistic it is difficult to put into words.

In searching for quotes tonight, I came across a snippet of a poem from Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets.

It fits how I feel right now, as far as relationships go, as far as completion and incompletion go.

I look at the expression on my face in this photo and dive into the “Yes, ofcourse!” I smile back at myself, knowing, knowing, knowing.

“When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.”

Mary Oliver, from the poem “When Death Comes”

How I adore the heart, soul and words of Mary Oliver.

 

Summer Writing Intensive Camp - and you don't even need to leave home!

Introducing the Summer Writing Intensive:
Creativity Camp (at Home or wherever
you happen to be) with Julie Jordan Scott.
 
The Writing Intensive is a Week-Long Program where you
focus on your writing projects while attending sessions
(since it is camp, we call them "

Camp

Fires

)
for inspiration, instruction and networking.

We have two sessions coming up - one the last week of July and another in August.
 
Camp is a time that is set apart from the rest of your
life, where you can focus on what is most
important to you. You will dive into your
writing project of choice and make daily progress
which you will share with your Writing Buddy
and me, as your lead counselor - but instead
of that red-pen-slash mark style of critique,
we will use a process of asking at least one
questions to help you gain writing
clarity, making at least one conscious compliment
and provinding one possibility for editing or
readjusting your writing in order to improve it.
 
Each Camper/Writer will be honored and treated
with kindness and respect.
 
Each Camper/Writer should expect to grown beyond
any preconceived notions because at Camp, we
leave expectations outside.... simply know your
writing will be significantly better on Friday than
it will be when you arrive at Camp on Monday.
 
Each day there will be a variety of exercises and
prompts followed by sharing, laughter, poetry
and song.
 
My favorite part of this implementation is the
way I am rolling out the prices for the program.
If you register earlier, your fees are lower.
I know how often people procrastinate and put off
signing up for something they know is exactly what
they need... well, I made the pricing both attractive
and low no matter where you get in - but wouldn't less
attractive be better for your wallet?
 
Registering early will do that for you!
 
You deserve to take a week where you will devote yourself
to your writing in a passionate, new way.
 
I would love nothing more than to have our Writing Intensive

Camp

Session

to become your Writing Sanctuary.
 
Ready to Register (or at least get more details?)
 
Click Here for details - 


= = = =
 
Thanks so much for your help in making the world
a better place AND for helping writers be better
writers.