Julie Unplugged

The Purple Whale Finds Her Way to Poetic Freedom

I was two hundred miles from home when I realized I left a new friend behind in a town I first met more than thirty years ago. We went there, my new friend and I, with my children, in search of a young man who became an American Literary Legend.

 Emma, Samuel and I went to Angel's Camp, California this weekend to discover more about the place where Samuel Clemens first became Mark Twain. I knew a little bit about jumping frogs and I knew the city from driving through there when I attended nearby University of the Pacific, but I never took the time to become intimate with Angel's Camp. I would say this weekend I fell in love with the city and found a whole new respect to American Literature legend, Mark Twain.

The last laugh came, though, when I decided for our final moments in Angel's Camp we would go to the city park where there is a beautiful old-style statue of the man Samuel Clemens would become: Mark Twain. I took it one step further: I wanted to include in those photos my Purple Whale Poetry Stand I had just finished for the Visible Poetics Poetry Celebration a week earlier.

That whale had brought me so much joy after I lost the original poetry stand.

 

It seemed like the perfect opportunity for some more poetic fun and celebration.

We took photos of her with folks who came to the Visible Poetics closing celebration. People posed with the whale, loving her as much as I did doing an impromptu performance of "I never saw a purple cow" which I changed, for the night, to "I Never Saw a Purple Whale".

After all, the Purple whale celebrated my 49th birthday with me, traveling across the valley of  Central California to the Coast and enjoying the day at Montana del Oro.

We took photos, I wrote, the kids giggled at the contrast of the purple poetry whale and the 19th Century American literary legend.

It was a colorful exclamation point to a phenomenally invested weekend.

Then came the last laugh.

I had offered another poetry stand into the universe.

What will I do now? I have a wooden duck to upcycle. I think she will be bright pink and this time, I am going to write a message on her since knowing my progress, these poetic pieces of art stay in my hands for about a week to ten days before moving along the poetry flow into someone else's hand.

In fact, part of my fun is imagining what people said/thought/did when they saw the purple whale sitting there at the feet of Mr. Clemens.

I trust she found a good home in all her purple sparkly goodness.

It is like a poem - it is great when I had her and somehow even better when I shared her with the rest of the world.

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Today's #Postaday: My Worst Teacher ~ Beloved Miss (W)Ick...

Today's question from The Daily Post asks us to share tales of our Worst Teacher.

Several come to mind instantly, but the one I will tell you about today is the first teacher I was subjected to in my educational career: Miss Wick. All these events took place in the room on the lower right corner of the image above. When my imagination peers through the window, I am taken back to 1967 and the very excited little girl that I was. I was in school! Soon I would learn to read! Joy of joys!

Miss Wick was my kindergarten teacher. I refer to her now as Miss Ick.

What made Miss Ick a bad teacher for me? As I re-read and relived my moments of kindergarten, I can not say Miss Wick was a bad educator, she was simply a mis-match for me. The only academics I remember were sitting in a large circle with Miss Wick saying things like, "What number is between four and six?" yet I can remember great details about my first grade swing through academic success.

Miss Wick was a horrid teacher for me because of the way she made me feel somehow wrong, somehow inept, somehow a rather unfortunate child in the center of a world of much more fortunate children.

I had a predilection for this belief even then, so Miss Wick did nothing to bolster my wobbly esteem, instead she did her best to help me sink lower into an early abyss.

I think that isn't a description of an empowering educator, at least not the last time I looked. Here, in a nutshell, are the ways Miss Ick attempted to turn me off to education. Thankfully, it didn't work.

One: Miss Ick compared me to my sister. As children, my sister and I were as different as two little girls could get. She was feisty, strong-willed and a tomboy. I was a girly-girl through and through. One of my chief joys about kindergarten was the reality of wearing a dress every single day. I was so excited at this prospect I could barely stand it. My sister's highlight of kindergarten, in my memory, is getting in trouble for kicking a boy while wearing a dress.

Two: Miss Ick seemed to make belittling me into a sport. I remember being exceptionally excited about being in the front of the line, the one and only time I was at the front of the line. She grabbed me out of the line and shouted at me that I was a baby because my coat was buttoned wrong. She shoved me to the back of the line where babies go. She also told me I was a baby because I couldn't tie my shoes, which she also said weren't right. I should have two pairs: sneakers and dress shoes. I had dressy sneakers. I am sure my frugal mom did that on purpose. Miss Wick just used the opportunity to once again prove just how wrong I could be. I was five years old, remember. How wrong can a five year old be?

Third: On Halloween I was a raccoon. My Mom sewed my costume which, admittedly, looked a lot like a leopard except for the tell tail tale and the circles around my eyes. Miss Ick insisted I was a leopard despite my very obvious raccoon tail. Naturally I was so thrilled to wear my new, carefully crafted raccoon costume I was quite distraught at being told, "You are not a raccoon, you are a leopard!" which to my five year old mind was like being told by the highest authority, "You don't have  blue eyes, you have brown eyes." That was the one and only year we got to go to school in costume. Maybe my hysterical tears had something to do with it.

Fourth: When I was in kindergarten in the 1960's we didn't do much academically. In fact, we probably did less than the average pre-school does now. My favorite play space was the "house" area where all the girls played domestic games with our babies and our kitchen sets. On a very special day, Miss Ick came to "tea". I very proudly served Miss Wick her cup of tea. She looked at me with great disdain. "Where is my saucer?" In my house, we used mugs, you see. We didn't serve tea, we served coffee. In mugs. I didn't know about saucers. I was so ashamed. Again.

Fifth: During the 60's in our town, the children would go home every day for lunch and return in the afternoon for school. Once a year, each child in my family would host his or her teacher to lunch. This was a huge deal in our house. My Mom made (what we thought was) a fancy lunch. My favorite menu item was coffee cake, made from Bisquick which my daughter and I still make today. I was so excited to have my turn hostessing a teacher for such a treat. Miss Ick declined the invitation. I was decimated at first. And a bit relieved later.

In fact, the relief was intense when I left Miss Ick's classroom. There were many more minor episodes of disdain for me that happened, I would say, close to daily. The best part of the year was that Miss Ick deemed me one of the "not so smart" kids so I was put in the first grade class with the other kids seen as "less able" which was assigned to the antithesis of Miss Foley, a young brunnette teacher who wore a bright pink dress who seemed to love me as much as I loved her.



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Finding Meaning in Playing Chess with a Snake #postaday

I was nervous. I sat in my car, emotionally preparing myself for my Solo Soul retreat to begin. After researching a variety of possible spots, I managed to find my way to Montana Del Oro, a California State Park I had never visited. I was nearly overwhelmed by its size and its beauty. I shifted in the seat as I felt my heart was raced as I sat there, unstirring, all because I didn't know where to start.

I had moments of thinking, "Maybe I will turn back. Yes, turning back seems like the practical action to take. There are more dense places with people I can talk to and familiarity. I can go shopping in Morro Bay, play in the places I met last Spring with friends."

I looked down at my steering wheel, "That isn't a much better plan. That isn't what I wanted to do. That isn't/wasn't/couldn't be the way to follow my carefully crafted intention."

 

I took a deep breath and stepped into the surprising warmth outside the car. I saw the path to the beach and without anything except my camera in hand, I took it.

 

One step following one step following one step I walked along the path to one of the beaches of Montana del Oro. Gorgeous. I took my time. I am not sure how many minutes it took to notice the air had turned sweet-smelling as well as salty. I am not sure how long it took to notice the plants in the scrub-almost desert-meets beach geography had colors other than green. Purple and dots of yellow, as well as tiny ecru flowers greeted me. I could have sworn I heard them laughing.



I allowed a gentle smile to creep across my face when I noticed something very surprising had also creeped up on me. Just ahead of me on the path it waited stiffly. It had noticed me first. Something very surprising had also creeped up on me.

A snake. A long snake. A striped snake. I snake that was sticking its tongue out, hungrily, and at its tail end, a rising flag that I knew might be a rattle. Otherwise, the snake stood perfectly still. I backed away, slowly. Still gently smiling. I backed away, and away, and away.

I breathed in gratitude and I smelled the sweet air. I reached into a purple flowering bush and asked it, "What should I do?" The snake moved, did an odd twisting backward move. I moved toward it. It became statue-like, again. I moved back. I massaged the purple flowers with my left hand and brought my hand to my face, inhaling their sweet scent.

A man sporting a San Francisco Giants baseball cap carrying a mountain bike on his shoulder happened along. "Do you know much about snakes? There is one there, on the path, and I am not sure what kind he is."

"Hmmm. I'm not much of a snake expert, either."

He walked closer to the snake to get a look.

I stepped back. I slowly inched back up the hill since I wanted to go forward if the snake slithered far enough away.

Another man came down the path, this one sporting a toddler in a backpack. "Hi!" I greeted him, smiling. "Do you know what these purple flowers are called?"

He looked and said, with a question, "California sage?" My face still held the question. "Oh, I took a class where we identified all of these plants but I can't... I think its California Sage... wow, I feel so old."

"It's fine," I reassured him. "Do you know snakes better than plants? See that guy up there throwing rocks? There is a snake in the path. I didn't want to get any closer."

I greeted the curly haired blonde boy in the backpack. He reminded me of Samuel when he was younger.

The man continued along the path toward the snake and the San Francisco Giants-Bicycle Carrying man.

 

(See the two men at the top of the path here? Toward the right of the frame?)

 

My smile kept getting wider. This was awesome. I giggled at all the stuff I could make this detour mean:

1. Go back to civilizations where snakes don't block your path.

2. Montano del Oro is the wrong path. All of the paths in Montano del Oro are wrong. This one is the wronggest of all and ofcourse, because you, Julie chose it.

3. I told you it was foolish to go anywhere without a guide book.

4. Why are you so stupid? Everyone knows the first stop is always the visitor's center!

5. Hmmm. Snake in path not moving. Find another path, preferably snake free.

I went with #5.

But look at all that meaning-clutter I could have spouted at myself since I had been, just a half hour early more than slightly scared about this adventure I was taking.

"Go back." "All are wrong." "You are the most wrong." "Why are you stupid?" "Everyone knows." "I told you so, fool."

My friend Susan Loughrin sent me a note yesterday as I worked on this essay. She had seen photos of my snake friend and she sent me a link about Power Animals and their messages to us. The Rattlesnake sends a message of death and rebirth. It speaks of major transition and renewal. Change, renewal, the tendency to enjoy and seek quiet times in nature.

It sounds like my kindred, doesn't it?

That quiet smile has made its impression on my face again.

Now you may not have met up with a rattle snake in your path recently AND you may have met up with a metaphorical snake in your metaphorical path.

We are, each and all of us, experiencing change on some level all the time.

You may choose to make conscious choices based on facts or unconscious choices based on fear and negative beliefs. You know, the meaning I could have plugged into the snake "blocking" my path.

When I first wrote this, I think the snake was the one who won. The snake was the one who gleefully chanted "Check Mate!" Now I see it as the two of us and the ALL of us, coming together in a hug of knowing, understanding... seeing what is and how we reflect that "what is" with love in each other's eyes.

 

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Wednesday Wishcasting: The Burden I wish to give up....

I love the visual aspect of this week's wishcasting prompt:

"What burden do you wish to put down?" I can picture my metaphoric burden in my mind-heart's eye. I carry a burden, like a backpack. It is time to choose, finally, to take it off my shoulder and put it down.

First, a couple brief vignettes to illustrate my burden backpack. Years ago after my daughter was stillborn, I went into therapy for the first time.

Back then I was living a fairly yuppified, conventional lifestyle. I had an expense account, a company car, a good job. I had bought my first house, my husband was a young lawyer who had passed the bar exam on the first try. We were young, competent, in-charge-of-life. Marlena's death was the first thing in my life that happened that really put an unmoveable wrench in my stream.

My therapist said to me in one of our sessions, "You really ARE an "A" personality!" to which I replied, "Oh, no, I am not an A personality, I am an E personality."

"What is an E personality?" she asked.

"I do my best to be everything to everyone." And I do. Still. More than I should.

I do my best to live up to everyone else's expectations. I don't concern myself with my desires nearly as much as I try to fit into what other people expect of me. Yesterday, situations lined up which illustrated this case brilliantly with a couple situations which illustrate my conscious choice making and not living up to other's expectations and then a scenario where I am expected to smile and say, "Yeah,sure, ofcourse that is fine. Yeah, I'll work with that plan. Yes. Oh, sure. Disrespect is not a big deal to me. I have been disrespected so many times in the past couple months in similar ways, this is just another example and really, no big deal because this fits in so perfectly with my E Personality story."

Well, it ain't gonna happen any more. I wish to once and for all put down and give up the burden backpack of continually living up to other people's expectations of me.

Gone are the times when I will unconsciously say, "All I am worth are your scraps and left overs. If that is all you have available for me, that's fine. That illustrates your choices and your vision of what I need, deserve, or more likely than anything, is because your primary focus is you rather than me, which is totally normal and not a bad thing. It just is the primary focus for most people. So thank you for helping me discern what is acceptable to me right now and what is unacceptable to me right now."

Yesterday I also apologized to a different friend of mine. People told me, "You don't owe an apology for that." to which I responded, "Perhaps I don't owe an apology, but I didn't act the way a conscious person acts. I am apologizing for my lack of consciousness and how this may have added to this person's pain." If I am the only person who chose to sincerely apologize, so be it. I don't need to be like everyone else. I can put down that burden. I have embraced my lack of conventionality, there are just a few left behind trailing strings of it that sometimes rise up and slap me, as in these examples.

Yes, I'll say it again:

I wish to once and for all put down and give up the burden backpack of continually living up to other people's expectations of me.

Today from #PostaDay: Repurposing the "Any Job" Prompt into Dream Employer Creation

Today the Folks at the Daily Post offered this Prompt ~ Query which was like waving a red flag in front of this "anti-work-for-anyone-else" bull.

If you could have any job in the world, what would it be?

Whenever I see a question like this I know the answer, immediately.

I wouldn't want any job.

I don't think I would ever want a job again.

I wouldn't mind employing people to work alongside me as I do my life work ~ creating writing and art camps to assist people in tuning into their creative voice... ultimately to work on shifting the planet into a better place for one and all.

I have thought it would be cool to employ people in this adventure so maybe the better question for me would be, "If you could offer any job in the world, what would it be?"

I would offer the job of Creative World Shift Partner.

Each employee chooses her or his area of specialization and together we craft an empowering job description that offers a daily stretching into one's goals and dreams as well as being reachable with that stretch. Each employee would feel excited to come to work, buzzy and happy on Mondays about the clear, crisp white canvas the week has to offer and at the end of (at the most four day) work week, would work on her or his own soul expansion through rest, reflection, contemplation, prayer, intimacy with others....yeah. That's the sort of job I would want to offer.

And if I created a job for myself, that's the job I would create. And by jove, I believe I have...

I gave myself five minutes to write to today's Daily Post prompt and so far, this has taken me four minutes to write. For someone who didn't actually believe or buy into the concept of the prompt... one who repurposed the prompt... I would say... pretty darn fine... whether you think my concept is whacked out or wonderful, it doesn't matter.

Oh, the timer just went off.

I am completely invigorated, inspired and content.

Thank you, Daily Post.

And as I review my quickly sketched words, I realize I do have friends with similar job descriptions. Kudos to the forward thinking employers who move beyond petty bureaucracy to create workplaces with meaning.

Move through Clogged Thoughts to Write Your Life Moments with Passion

If I had to venture a guess, this weekend is one I will look back on for the rest of my life with a sense of fine-tuned satisfaction and quiet contentment.

I realized something else as I attempted to write about it ~ sometimes when there is so much passion, it is difficult to discern where to start. Right now, the memories are feeling muddy. This makes me exceptionally grateful that I documented as I went along.

We creative folks tend to have so many stories to tell, so many insights, so many a-ha's and yes, we have giggled with ourselves at the telling and retelling in our minds so much that when we sit down to write them the exact opposite event happens.

Nothing. We write nothing. We wiggle in our seats, we fuss and fester, we might turn to social networking for comfort and then ~ the moment is gone and too often we end up berating ourselves for "not being good enough to write a simple moment in time." We may go so far as to say, "Why did I ever think I could write?"

Do you recognize yourself in this self-talk?

My task now is to make a sentence list of the "moments in time" as they happened. Just the tiniest synopsis like "Playing chess with a snake" or "All of a sudden, there was purple in the landscape" or "Excuse me, may I ask you a favor?" All of these snippets are seedlings of story telling. I will write each tale, one-by-one as my writing progresses on its own journey.

How will I do this?

First, I will put the snippets of story in a jar or container and pull them out one at a time. I will set my timer for small chunks of time and then let the words flow. I will write, just write. Timed-free writing has this way of making the words flow, especially words which are inexplicably stuck in the midst of a traffic jam of ideas and images.

Second, I will remain open to moments floating my way, lining up and waving, "I am here, remember me?' throughout the day rather than attempt to "get them all down" at once.

Even writing this here and sharing it with you feels good. Now I know I will be able to write my memories as I had hoped instead of feeling blocked and stuck in the muck of "How am I ever going to write this down?" Such a simple way to use a heartfelt technique to feel better. My shoulders release, my muse feels well tended.

My words will be written. My heart stories, my soul-stories will be heard.

What about your words? Will they be written today? Will your heart and soul stories be heard?

Try this simple technique I mentioned using a simple gratitude list as your guide. Write a "story snippet" list of gratitudes and then use those as your springboards.

I guarantee if you start doing this, you will awaken to more than you expected both within your creative expression and with your heart and with your soul.

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This post was published first in Julie Jordan Scott's Daily Passion Activator ~ an Ezine that brings an essay and poem focusing on Passion, Presence and Purpose into your email box Monday through Friday at no charge to you.  Subscribe now:

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