Julie Unplugged

Artful Productivity ~ Filling the Well & Crafting from it.

I had a phenomenal birthday. Possibly the best ever.

 

It started actually, in my mind, long before my birthday itself. My sister sent me a facebook happy birthday a month before my day. She was embarrassed but I thought it was perfect. It is a big year, after all. I am seven-squared now.

 I had been looking forward to this moment since I was 7 times 6. I have waited seven years to be gloriously exponential. 7 X 7. Seven Squared. Forty Nine and better than ever. Excited about turning fifty. now in less than 365 days.

 

The night before my birthday I hosted the Closing Celebration for the first art show I ever curated: Visible Poetics. It was phenomenal and now that I am over my disappointment at who didn't show up I am rejoicing in what took place: a lot of unbridled creativity, art sales were made, networking happened on a large scale and kudos and mutual love was all around the space that night. I was on a high well into my drive toward my Birthday Solo Soul retreat space the next morning AND I noticed it took me a while to get quiet Saturday morning.

Even as I arrived at my retreat destination I had the "What the heck am I doing here?" thoughts and almost retreated to noisier destinations like a restaurant or a shopping mall. The comfort of a roof and other people.

I am grateful to say I did settle in. I did take lots of photos. And now, two days later, my creativity-after-glow has begun.

It started with this poem:



Sitting

amongst

the sea life

on a boulder chair

when I saw her

green, slightly,

thin and fragile

lodged

stuck

unmoveable

She was so fragile

Force may hurt her

So I stayed

sitting apart

ever so slightly and

In the wondering I felt

the tiniest nudge

of grief

I wondered more ~

What was

I grieving?

Selfish desires to make this shell mine?

Ego-based hope to incorporate

her beauty into my creativity?

Relentness lust for more experience?

I heard the seagulls wings

river-like as they opened and closed

they unfolded and refolded

I heard the waves greeting the shore

moving away from the shore

Seesawing up and down, back and

forth, in and out, hello - goodbye

The water became fire licking and burning

the sand with the heat

of the ocean underbelly

Weight relaxed against the boulder

I simply sat with the shell

the rocks

the silence

I sat

I sat

I sat

I looked at this shell and wondered

who was imprisoned, who was stuck

Was it her

Or was it me?

= = =

And as I spent time this morning gazing at the photo, I see yet another story asking for me to tell it.

Which I will. Eventually.

For now, this is what you have from Julie Jordan Scott, reporting in, from the memories of the most incredible birthday ever.

More to come in this year between 49 and 50.

 

Follow me on Twitter: @juliejordanscot

Hello. My Name is Julie. I am a Perfect Square. I choose to celebrate my birthday alone on a Solo Soul Retreat.

Last night I opened the door from my Poetry Celebration cocoon and gasped for air. Waves of fog, rolling in? This early?

 

 

 

I don't think my feet were hitting the ground, I was in such a rapturous place from spending the evening listening to poetry, creating poetry, leading willing people into a creative process and then, joyfully, coming out the other side only to find this loveable nemesis of mine: Fog. How could it be here so early! I was supposed to be driving to outside the fogbelt before its arrival. I had everything planned.

I was supposed to be where the sun is visible to start my perfect square year.

I laughed, albeit quietly, when I realized the fog was holding that wish captive and is somehow a perfect metaphor for my love-hate relationship with this place I have called home for nearly 21 years. The metaphors are quite rich as well, so I am staying present beyond the mystical fog curtain... and will get on the road in an hour or so, no matter what. Well, within reason, no matter what. I think.

I remember that John Lennon quote about life being what happens when we are busy making plans. I think about my long-time dream to start a creativity camp and artist's retreat. I think, "Wow, we did that at the Visible Poetics Poetry Celebration last night." A wide variety of people from a wide variety of places showed up and willingly put aside self consciousness and created, live and in the moment. Collaboratively.

There was one point when I wanted to say, "I have absolutely no idea how this is going to turn out," but I didn't. I gave what I felt were far too vague instructions and shut my mouth. And perhaps prayed a little. I didn't even have to stoke the poetry fire, it started burning wildly right away. I stood back and watched. People were laughing, they were taking risks, they were participating in their unique ways.

I had to struggle to stop talking about the experience when a handful of friends and I went to BJ's after the event where I had my first-ever mojito.

These are my final words as I take leave for the rest of the day. Solo retreat. Quiet, blissful, restful, restorative. Present and planning. Balanced in the what my heart desires and whatever the heck shows up...which turns out to be beyond what my humanness would suggest to me. Playing improv-this-creative-life games.

Sole retreat and soul retreat ~ my intent hasn't changed. I could be retreating in any place. I just so happen to be starting out in a coffee house (other than Dagny's) in Downtown Bakersfield with Greg Allman singing in my ears and Italian roast filling my mouth. I refuse to say where the rest of my day will be spent. I did tell two people my destination, just to be safe.

 

Thank you for reading and for being my companion on this journey into my fiftieth year. I am so blessed.

 

 

Follow Me on Twitter: @JulieJordanScot

 

My Vent is Less Vitriolic Than Your Vent ~ #dailypost

"I was born on Monday, January 29, 1962 at 12:25 am. It was the second time I disappointed my mother."

 

I can't remember the context of writing that line, but when it first came from my gut somewhere, I gasped and then I cried. My Mom always wanted a Sunday baby. If I had only been 26 minutes faster being born, I could have made up for the fact that I was the result of a diaphragm failure. One minute born, two strikes against me.

Ever since I have felt a strong pang whenever I disappointed anyone important to me and now, on the eve of my 49th birthday it is no different.

I am celebrating my birthday in a more intentional way than I ever have in the past. I am going on a Personal Retreat to tune in spiritually, to contemplate and to be in silence and solitude. Only two people know where I am going, just to be safe.

This choice has disappointed some people. I mean, it is not what is expected. Other people expect to be included in dinners out or parties or other revelry. I'm not doing any of that - because what I want is to go away, alone, and listen. To create. To pray. To take the paths I choose to take. To take breaks when I feel like taking breaks. I have been craving rest and silence since the rest of the world started celebrating the New Year.

January 29 starts my New Year. The last year before I turn 50. It is the first day of being 49 or 7 squared. I haven't been "a square" since I was thirty six and I won't be again until I am 64. This is a big deal for me.

And I am sorry, people-who-don't-get-it. I don't mean to disappoint you. For now and perhaps it is from now on, I'm going to stop putting all my emphasis on what you want and spend more time focusing on spending my days emphasizing what my soul calls for me to do and to be.

So - I will be silent to the rest of the world for much of January 29. I won't be tweeting, facebooking or blogging except to announce the opening and the completion of my day of solitude. My phone will be off. My heart-mind will be focused.

When the Daily Post asked us to Vent - this seemed obvious, because I have seen so many scrinched up faces since I announced my plans.

The smiles I have received because of my birthday choice say so much more than the frowns.

Vent completed. Retreat is only hours away!

 

Follow me on Twitter: @JulieJordanScot

From Today's Daily Passion Activator: Take Writing What You Can't Write Even Deeper

Earlier this week I wrote about what I usually don't write about.

My son's autism.

I wrote a poem. And a blog post. And another poem. And today, I took photos to catalogue some of what I am feeling as Samuel goes through a rough patch. The first rough patch in a long time. I was so smug I was thinking all those "autism cures" which I found so... inherently wrong... might be somewhat right after all.

And then this: escalating behavior problems in school. His wholehearted desire to leave school. His inability to express himself, his increased anxiety.

I longed to write about it but felt like I couldn't. It took a writing prompt to make my pencil move and a totally unrelated photo prompt to bring my camera into my hands and then my camera shutter click. And the poems to continue rolling off the keyboard.

The prompt for the photos didn't say anything remotely like, "Take a photo of the angst you feel about your child's autism." The prompt was "a little bit of red."

I stood on my porch, covering text book pages and poetry pages with red. In order to do that, I had to move Samuel's sweat shirt.

It was red. I looked out into the foggy morning as I attached the painted pages on the line to dry. I thought, "Sweatshirt. Red. Samuel. Without Samuel. Fogs. Bluff. Do it."

The "Do it" was a command more than an option.

Five minutes later I abandoned my "must do now" list and converted that into a "must do once this yearning leaves me and the creative process does its thing."

Earlier in the morning I lead a Writing Camp session with the prompt, "My heart guides my writing to say..." My heard had been guiding this huge burst in writing and now it was time to get wordless again, to say the unsayable not with words but with images.

The photos include a sweatshirt of his but is definitely not him.

 

As I moved and clicked and clicked and moved, I remembered a blog comment from one Dad whose son is on the spectrum said he writes poetry on themes of his son but doesn't use his son as a topic for his poetry.

 

I wasn't sure I could remove myself like that, but seeing these photos, I see that I can.

Perhaps I will experiment with this more.

One thing I know for certain, I will continue to follow the guidance of my heart while continuing to make those oh-so-logical to-do lists and setting intentions.

And I will continue to give space for the heart's call to creativity to trump the tyranny of the "must do now" list. The "must do now" list is being whittled away. I am probably more productive with it because I listened to my heart's call and acted upon my heart's call. There isn't that pahrump pahrump squeak that comes when I attempt to ignore it. 

 

Plus I am plain ol' happier.

= = =

Follow me on Twitter: @juliejordanscot

 

#Wishcasting on Thursday: And No, I am Not Picking a Favorite Anything...#postaday

I love the irony of today's (now it is yesterday's) Wishcasting Wednesday.

 

I read the prompt-felt the initial excitement of "What do you wish to enjoy?" and immediately got swallowed up in "hafta's" with the "what do you enjoy?" always falling upon the other side of whatever project was pushing my nose into the center of the "to do."

As the morning wore on, I felt myself get angry, over and over again, over the silliest things.

It started with "If you were stranded on a desert island, what record album would you take with you?"

What kind of a question is that? I am not going to land on a desert island, alone, and would I have a record player?

Less than an hour later I was asked, "Do you like to dance?" Sure! Love it! and then, "What is your favorite dance?"

Whatever is in front of me.

Whatever music is playing.

Whatever way my toe feels like tapping. That is my favorite.

Why was everyone stuck on "The One".

I don't believe in "The One" of anything. And then, I got angry that I wasn't willing to expand on "The One"

I wasn't enjoying any of it.

And that bugged me because I was thinking of the Wishcasting Wednesday prompt and thinking I didn't want to say what first occurred to me: "I wish to enjoy this year." and "I wish to enjoy this moment." and "I wish to enjoy every moment."

It all felt so cheesy to me.

I know my dear friends on wishcasting, well, I am betting at least one of them will say exactly that. I just can't, I can't.

I think, for me - enjoy - is like engaged. I am not going to use the official dissection of the word skills. I am not online as I write, so research is out of the question. But EN is like IN. JOY, to me, isn't the giddy, over the top, inauthentic talking about joy. It is holding joy at the center. Holding peace-embued contentment at the center. Does it always look like nirvana? No. Not in my world. Can "enjoy" wear an angry suit from time to time?

I think so, I think so --> when one is still able to laugh at oneself - in that same moment.<- - that is joy.

You know, laughing at the ridiculous of being angry over, "Why do I have to pick a favorite all the time?"

Enjoyment is not taking everything so seriously that getting "the right" and "the one and only favorite" becomes heavier than the winter coat I pulled on as I went out to feed the ducks today amidst the cold foggy morning.

 

To enjoy is to simply be. Content. Present. Engaged. Happy. It isn't false giddy-ness or the brushing off of authentic emotions. I have learned to enjoy cranky-ness and anger, when well spent, because it is me being me. Fully present, in-the-moment me. Sometimes disappointed me. I enjoy that I can be this me without faking it. Without covering up or stuffing my true feelings.

And you know what else?

I wish to enjoy whatever is in front of me. In each precise moment.

I said it. There, I said it. I wish to enjoy this moment and the next moment and that moment in March, 2011 and that moment, on August 14 when it is blistering hot and the sweat runs from my forehead to my chin. I wish to enjoy that.

I wish to enjoy that I am a day late with my wishing and no wish police will come get me.

I wish to enjoy Samuel's challenges in school and love him, unconditionally, through it.

I wish to enjoy Emma's Emma-ness, and let her know she is loved no matter what as well.

That all feels so right, so good. So.... enjoyable.

Thank you, Jamie, for pushing me along in my wishing and for the folks at the Daily Post for writing a somewhat ridiculous, mundane writing prompt. I actually have more to add on that topic and I will, later today.

I wish.... to enjoy.....

What do you wish to enjoy?

Jamie Ridler asks us wishcasting questions each Wednesday: you may join the fun as well. I've made it so simple- here's the link for you!

Write: What We Are Unable to Say ~ My Son has Autism

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." ~Anaïs Nin

I have said it before: I have a difficult time writing poetry about my son's autism.

I can write poetry about most anything else. I have run the poetry gamut from my love of pencils, my sheer bliss over my first cup of coffee in the morning, the stillbirth of my first daughter, the slow-crawling approach of menopause, my daughter going away to college 3,000 miles away, but to write poetry of my son's autism? I tend to stop short of the first word.

He plays with his wii behind me. He can talk for hours about wii. He carries the instruction manual and uses it in his weekly reading journal for school. He has a fog delay today, so we are celebrating by giving him some video game time before we brave the limited vision by going to a nearby park to take foggy photos. He has an artist/writer/actor/poet creative all-around mom. He can't help it. We can't help it.

"Woe!" I hear him sing-shout behind me.

No, it wasn't "Woe" it was "Whoa!" I hear his pitch match the video game music pitch. His hearing is like that and his ability to mimic is like that, a spectrum thing.

Maybe my inability to write much poetry about his spectrum issues is because I worry about it being cloaked in"Woe". I think my poetry will be grieving his spectrum-ness rather than "Wow, my son is cool."

Which he is: cool, funny, bright, unique. He teaches me so much. He feels so much. He hurts and he rejoices, so much.

Maybe it is because language skills are his weakness and as a Mom-in-love-with-words I am in denial that he and I can't cuddle up together over story books, that he doesn't particularly like fiction, that he tells me to stop singing when I sing. That there are some things I can't express to him the way I do my neurotypical girls.

I can feel the arm-hug words of Anais Nin, around me.

She was such a physical, all-consumingly passionate woman. I can feel her snuggled up next to me, head resting on my shoulder, whispering, "just try it, now."

So I begin:

The fog holds us close. School
starts later because of the fog
mask over drivers eyes. Safety,
the school people say. This means.

More time with Mom. More time
to breathe easier. More time to
simply be without performing
or working so hard to fit in.

He looks down as he walks
Knowing the ground holds surprises
Animal homes disguised as human
trash cans, intriguing rocks
and dangers.

Today becomes color cataloguing day.
Making sense of newness day.
Different than the norm day.

"Mommy" "Mommy." "Look."

"This tree is green. It is
like the hulk, this tree."

"Come close, Mommy."

He calls me.

"Look."

I look.

He is right. It does look
like the hulk. Not like a
granny smith apple or
a pine tree or camouflage
gear, but like the glowy
green that is the Hulk.

I declare another tree red.
"No." he says.
"Not red. Maroon."
He is right.
It isn't red.
It is maroon.

On the way home, we pass a school.
"Their playground is all yellow
and blue." "Only yellow and blue."
"When you were a child, did you
have a playground at your school?"

= = =

I can see, right away, how I can edit this poem and make it stronger. I also see how declaring that may, under normal circumstances, keep me from taking my writing anywhere and may take a perfectly fine in rough draft form - call it what it is - and turn it into block-about-writing-about-my-Samuel's-life-on-the-spectrum.

I am going to post as is and edit later.

I feel the presence of Anais Nin squeeze my shoulder. Her hand covers my hand and together we press PUBLISH.

= = =

(This post was written thanks to a prompt at The Daily Post: host of the Post a Day and a list of quotes offered via The Urban Muse.)

= = =

follow me on twitter: @juliejordanscot

Poet Sign Post: #CED2011

I was inspired to make this poet signpost by Reinhold Niebuhr’s description of a pilgrim: "A pilgrim is a poet who creates by taking journeys." It reminded me of myself, actually, so I plan to take this signpost (the other side talks about poetry) on the pilgrimage of my 50th year.

Definitely a work in progress, I feel something when I look at the signpost and these photos.

Less than a week until my birthday. I am... journeying.

====

Follow me on twitter: @juliejordanscot

 

Sunrise + Words = Passionate Word-Love Affair (#ShineOnline)

It isn't a secret. I love writing challenges and writing communities.

I love gathering with others to throw creative spaghetti on the wall, to splatter paint, to make messes and create results that sometimes suck and sometimes are boring and sometimes, every once in a while, cause a memorable stirring of the soul unlike anything before or will ever be again.

It is one of the reasons I participate in blog challenges like this months "International Small Stones Writing Month" and ShineOnline blogging challenge.

It is one of the reasons I created Writing Camp.

It is one of the reasons my art now is so heavily based in words.

I am in this heavy-duty, uninhibited, no holds barred love affair with words. I want to share it with the world like a teen aged girl giggles, saying "he said.. and
then he, you know... said... and he brought me and then... like... ohmigawsh... and then..."

This love affair reaches out. It includes you, I insist, grabbing your hand to pull you close. This love affair includes especially you right in this precise moment.

One of my personal challenges this year is to keep a Nature Journal: I feel it may be important as I develop more in-person rather than Virtual Writing Camps. I sketch around my neighborhood and tune into urban nature, mostly, since that is where I live and breathe and write most of the time.

I have started capturing sunrises and sunsets and along with that, whatever is happening when the sun rises and the sunsets. Surprising to me is people are enjoying them so much. Sure, the people who are "Small Stoners" like me, but also random people who read my tweets or friends, like Alison, who see my words on facebook and say, "I feel so connected with you when you write about sunrise and sunset."

There is a part of my heart that sings and a part of my heart that says, "Really? You are?" slightly aghast at the thought of it.

Here are some of my sunrise moments this week:

Scent of homemade applesauce cooking.
Coffee in my cup.
Ancient pencil in my hand.
My notebook open.
Overcast sunrise.

~ ~ ~

a black and white polaroid photo getting brighter
rather than a red-orange-rose colored trumpet...

~ ~ ~

Today's Moon Set: a gallant gentlemen, tucking
the darkness in his jacket pocket as the
ingenue sunrise whispered, "Wait!"

~ ~ ~

Lavendar-Gray prelude: 39 degrees. Gold orb
emits dust bullets, slicing through finicky mist,
insisting to be seen.

~ ~ ~
If I miss a sunrise, as I have this weekend because
of the desire to allow to get more rest in order to
calm my cold, I write the sunset instead. Here is
one of them:

Sun closes in on the horizon, changes from amber to gray.
Chill blows waves in the river. Five birds fly in a V.

~ ~ ~

Gathering with other word lovers to write is a pure, ridiculously affirming activity.

Love words, love writing, love writing words and loving one another today.

Tune into the writing communities available around you and write.

= = =

follow me on twitter:@juliejordanscot

Right here. Now. In Bakersfield. #aros

I think people would be surprised to know most of my micropoems for this month's "A River of Stones" take place right in the heart of Bakersfield.

Some of them were on impromptu road trips: one in particular was Tehachapi, but the river -rat-running, the incredible sunrises and sunsets are all here in the heart of the place I live: not out on a special mountain top oasis or Shangri-la but right here. Right here ~ which is where, I believe Shangri-la is.

It is in one's perspective, in one's attitude in the choices one makes.

In preparing for my birthday next weekend I have been busily writing, coming up with some notes and plans to make this next year od my life as fruitful and joyfully expressed as possible.

Today I was working on a list of tru-isms and this one fits here perfectly.

I haven't said the words, "That's not fair!" for years.

I think it is at least twenty-one years, since my daughter died. It was then I learned first hand that life just isn't fair and the sooner I came to grips with it not being fair, the happier I would be. After all, is it fair I get to bask in the last rays of sunlight in the day or see a moon set as glorious as last Wednesday morning? No, that isn't fair at all. That is grace at work, just like the "bad" or "unfair!" events that unfold right under my nose.

I don't have to like all those events. And I don't cry victimy whine rant of "not fair" instead I look at circumstances as, "This is what is and now, it is up to me to cope with what is... well, or like a pouty spoiled child who stomps her feet looking for someone to blame.

I would rather explore the urban wildness where some burrowing animals ~ kit foxes, weasels, rats, who knows? Have built quite a network of homes which I walk upon and capture with my camera as the air gets chillier and the rays of the sun lengthen and then, disappear. Right here, in urban Bakersfield. I don't have to go anywhere to experience nature. That isn't fair, either. It is lucky. And it is my choice, to discover what is here. Right nere. Right now. Here.

====

Follow me on Twitter: @JulieJordanScot

Howling at the Full Wolf Moon with Jamie Ridler's Full Moon Dream Board Circle

This dreamboard was different for me. I was compelled to start with words in a spiral, a freewriting piece that turned out to be fairly poetic and after that, I layered photo images that sang to me.

 

I was going to cover the words, but it was as if they asked to be seen, to be heard, to be honored... so I did.

Interesting, because as I re-read I see I wrote, "I am hungry for long forgotten pathways" like the children in the dreamboard with shovels and rakes, clearing a path. Childlike and fun (reminds me of last month's dreamboard of all the hanging upside down images.)

 

I also see abondanza appearing (my theme for this year) and continued awakening.

I love this wolf moon as a "full moon howler"... yes, I have howled with the coyotes who still roam through the center of Bakersfield ~ I know the wildness and the untamedness of these glorious animals who have learned to live in the center of a tamed land.

 

I found an image that said "Wild Intimate" and my heart leaped. It describes ME and what I am creating with writing camp... deeper intimacy with oneself through the creative process.

I am hungry for the ancient and the untouched. Deeper, wider, rest.

I wish my images were clearer. Perhaps I will take more tomorrow and sub them in... I was just so excited to get this up and shared... it was like giving birth.

And now... Ohhhhhh OOOOOO ooooot ooooot oooooootttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt.

Howling always feels so good!