Lessons in love from the big old sun

Fiona writes: Earlier I went out into the garden and called for my two young cats. 

They weren't on their usual spot on the bed (alongside old man cat Fatty) and the paranoid part of me wanted to make sure they hadn't both been knocked down by a car (we did lose our cat Silver, pictured, this way).

Tsuki came straight away, and purred around my legs for a while before scampering off to leap at flies. Roshi didn't appear. 'Maybe he's asleep under the bed', I thought. 'Maybe he's too far away to hear me.' 'Maybe he's been knocked over by a car' lurked at the back somewhere.

Money, desire and pancakes

Fiona writes: When I was little, my mum would make me and my brother pancakes.

We would sit impatiently at the kitchen table as she stood at the stove and slaved away. They took so LONG to cook. One side. Then the other. Then a delicious circle of golden pancake, kissed with lemon & sugar and eaten in three bites. And then the endless wait for the next.

Worse, there were two of us. We had to take turns. Oh, the agony of watching my brother eat his pancake while mine was still liquid in the pan!

I've been thinking some more about money after my post about money on Sunday. The book I'm reading about money is of the 'money is unlimited' variety. I feel a little (a lot) sceptical about this, as I know for sure that the earth's resources aren't unlimited, and that some of our luxury depends on poorer country's lack. I know that pancakes aren't unlimited.

But.

Go quietly, quietly

Fiona writes: Last week I was in a beautiful quiet place with thirteen other writers and two tutors. The tutors were wise, and the other students were helpful, but somehow I found myself getting frustrated in the group sessions. I felt choked with other people's words.

On the Wednesday morning I skived the morning class. I walked out through the vegetable garden and lay on my stomach on a bench. I walked through the woods, noticing the scents of sage, honeysuckle and pine, hearing wood pigeons and the wind shuffling the leaves, finding a dalmation-mottled leaf, seeing a red admiral, the sun filtering through hazel leaves.

I sat under a tree and read this quote in my book, by Thoreau: 'What is a course in history or philosophy or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most admirable routine of life, compared to the discipline of looking always at what is to be seen?'.

I made a cup of tea. I brought it to my mouth too suddenly, and the loose tea was a whirlwind. If I waited, the black bits settled and the golden liquid became clear.

Let me offer you the opportunity to give me some money

Fiona writes: I'll get to the title of this post after I tell you something about my relationship with chocolate.

Liquid salted caramels. Sharp raspberry creams. Dark and bitter with grains of real coffee. Fresh green pistachio praline. Creamy blocks of honey milk.

I like EXPENSIVE chocolate. The quality stuff. I spend as much money on chocolate as wine lovers would spend on good wine.

I spend this money because I love eating good quality chocolate. The money I spend is more than repaid by the scrumptious enjoyment I receive.

An interview with Colleen Leonardi: Writer, Editor, Choreographer

Fiona writes: I found Colleen Leonardi through her lovely blog, and soon discovered that she was multi-talented... choreography, cooking, yoga, writing... a fine candidate for our series of creativity interviews. We're very privileged to welcome her here today.

Welcome, Colleen. What drives your creative work?
My love of grace and the imagination, and an endless sense of curiosity. It’s a longing I feel in my body to understand things, transform things, and give back. When I was young and training in dance, it was the desire to jump higher, turn faster, and dance as much as possible. My writing life was private. I kept journals and promised myself that someday I would be a writer, but for the time being, dance was my passion. As I grew up, experienced the world, and came to accept how I see things, my passion for dance and my private desire for writing mellowed, each moving into the other. Eventually, I came to see my all of my life as creative work. And the longing I have in my body to write, cook, move, knit, make things needs to be expressed on a daily basis in order to feel like I’m connected and contributing to the world. It’s also a matter of survival. For me, the drive to create is like the drive to eat. If I don’t do it, I get hungry, cranky, and weak.

The closer we get to people, the more we see their wonderfulness & their terribleness

Fiona writes: Recently I've been following the controversy surrounding allegations about a top yoga teacher in America. People in positions of authority are always getting into trouble. Spiritual or religious teachers, CEOs of companies, politicians, sports coaches...

As we come to trust & depend on these people, especially those we know personally (our doctor, or the head of our family) we become vulnerable.

Unfortunately, spiritual leaders & CEOs & doctors are also human beings. They are driven by a whole host of conscious and unconscious drives, some of which will be healthy and altruistic, and some less so. Serious allegations might come to light - of sexual misconduct, or financial swindling, or something 'minor' might happen which nonetheless transforms our view of them as 'safe people'.

When this happens, it hurts. If we can't trust this part of this person, then can we trust the rest of them? Can we trust anyone? Where are we safe?

Feed your head (by opening your heart)

Fiona writes: Sometimes our heads need feeding.

At the weekend Kaspa & I walked across the Worcestershire fields alongside the river Severn, with the Malvern hills as our backdrop. We stumbled upon a caravan park, deserted for the winter, and sat and looked at the reflections in the water. I noticed long-tailed tits, the squidge of mud under my boots, the cold air entering and exiting my lungs.

I also disappeared into the glittering Aladdin's cave that is Pinterest. Pinterest lets you gather the most beautiful images with a click of your mouse & create your own 'boards'. Here's Channing Allard's glorious board where I found the goldfish image, and here's what I've made so far.

This is how I fed my head this weekend. But I don't think it matters so much where you go or what you do. It matters whether your head is ready for feeding or not. To prepare yourself for nourishment, you need to allow your eyes, ears, nose, fingers, mouth, head & heart to open.

This is the kind of preparation we talk about when you go out hunting small stones. What helps you?

Happy Birthday to Writing Our Way Home (have some cake)

Fiona writes: We are one year old.

One year and a couple of weeks, really, but it's still a good reason to eat cake.

This weekend we both suddenly had the urge to redesign our logo.

We wanted something earthy, elegant, solid, made-by-hand. Something that reminds you of home. We hope we've succeeded.

The urge came because, as a company and as individuals,  we're metamorphosising. We've grown more confident about what we have to offer and we're (hopefully) getting better at sharing it with people.

Getting the word out is always a fine balance between people thinking 'ooh, that looks interesting' and 'grrr, not them again, less of the hard sell already!'

An interview with Rosemary Starace: Artist, Writer

Today it is our great pleasure to welcome Rosemary Starace to our series of creativity interviews.

Welcome, Rosemary! What drives your creative work?
It just seems to be my nature. It’s mysterious to me. It is simply something I want to do.

What would you say to yourself if you could go back in time and meet yourself at the beginning of your creative career?
I would say, “This is your nature, you can trust it.”

How do you keep creating when things get difficult?
In a certain sense art and life are always difficult! And so, the answer to this question would be, “Accept the difficulty!” When I was young, I confided to an advisor that I found it very hard to get to my studio and start working. I was asking him how I could change that; he asked me to ponder how I would deal with it if it never changed.

In praise of special places

Kaspa writes: This afternoon I've been writing some material for the new Journalling ecourse that I’m running in March. I have been writing about the importance of certain places and how they resonate with meaning for us. This afternoon I am appreciating the earthiness of my being.

Some spaces do seem to have an almost universal appeal. The edges of places, where the ocean meets the land. Desserts. Mountains. As I write this I can see the northern tip of the Malvern Hills. If you follow the ridge to the south you come to British Camp, an Iron Age fort. People have been coming to these hills for thousands of years.

I’m sure it that some of the reasons the ancient Britons had for settling here were practical. A good defensive posture. Access to the spring water. But the hills speak to me of something more than just practicalities, and (perhaps I am just projecting my own romanticism back in time) I like to think for the Iron age community too.

The last thing we want to do is love

Fiona writes: Love. What do I have to say about love?

‎"In the midst of total uncertainty, we can love."

This is what Terrance Keenan has to say.

He doesn't say, we can feel that we are loved.

He says, we can love.

Easier said than done. When there isn't any ground under our feet, when we feel we're being let down by people and situations and the whole world, the LAST thing we want to do is love.

The Mindful Writer by Dinty W. Moore: A Review (and a tantrum)

Fiona writes: I'm usually wary about accepting books for review because:

a) I don't like getting something for free and then feeling I ought to like it and,

b) I'm rubbish at writing reviews.

And now I have a confession to make.

I just spent an hour writing a review of this book. I described how I'd discovered Dinty's funny, wise voice through listening to him read 'The Accidental Buddhist'. I said some clever things about the format of the book and the Buddhist underpinnings. I was quite pleased with myself.

I wrote to Dinty and told him the review was finished, and asked when I should post it.

And then I looked back at my tabs and the blogger one had disappeared into thin air. The words, for some unknown reason, hadn't auto-saved. The whole thing was lost. I had a tantrum. I complained to Kaspa that I hated writing reviews and that I couldn't do it again. I cried a little bit.

I don't know what I'm doing most of the time.

I don't know what I'm doing most of the time.

This is Leonard Cohen speaking, but it could be me.

This morning we drove along the shady west side of the hills. The snow had fallen, melted, frozen again, and was softening in the morning's bright sun.

Each blade of grass and a filigree of twigs were coated in white, stitched with beads of light. Everything glistened and shimmered.

As we drove, thoughts and feelings drifted through me like shoals of fish. Occasional questions like, are we doing the right thing with our lives? Where will we get a nice breakfast? The usual. When I remembered to, I took in the beauty like bread soaking in milk.

There is an extraordinary relief, for me, in acknowledging that for much of the time I am mostly in the dark.

When I read Cohen's quote (below) I also feel amused. I feel solidarity with him, for admitting to such depths of foolishness. I feel comforted.

I feel the truth of what Terrance Keenan wrote.‎"I was not alone. Noone is alone. This is the first understanding."

As I type, this Winter afternoon with the gas fire blazing and with two cats draped across the sofa, I'm listening to Cohen sing. You can listen too, here. The flames are still licking at the air with their tangerine tips. The kettle is calling me to fill it.

None of us really know what we're doing, most of the time. Frost makes the world beautiful, nonetheless. Cats make laps warm. We can sing for each other. We can know that we're not alone.

*

"I don't know what I'm doing most of the time. There's a certain humor in realizing that. I can never figure out the kind of tie to put on in the morning. I don't have any strategy or plan to get through the day. It is literally a problem for me to decide which side of the bed to get out on. These are staggering problems. I remember talking to this Trappist monk in a monastery. He's been there twelve years. A pretty severe regime. I expressed my admiration for him and he said 'Leonard, I've been here twelve years and every morning, I have to decide whether I'm going to stay or not.' I knew exactly what he was talking about."
~Leonard Cohen

*

'This Freedom' by Martin Gommel via Creative Commons, with gratitude.

An interview with Terrance Keenan: Artist, Writer, Monk

Fiona writes: Sometimes you come across an author who speaks to you as if they knew you. Writing that answers questions you didn't even know you had.

Terrance Keenan is one of those authors for me. I was amazed when I wrote to him and he actually wrote back. It turns out he's an ordinary human being after all, as well as being a hero of mine. As you can tell, I'm very happy to welcome him to our series of interviews with creative people today.

Terrance, what drives your creative work?
I feel I was put here to do it. Not by anyone or thing, but it is why I am here. And as I age I am driven harder because there are certain things I feel I must finish before I die and time is simply running out. It's a great excuse for cutting out what doesn't matter. But if you want to go back to the roots of it, I can identify two experiences that have marked me and which I think about, without exaggeration, every day.

Meet Ruth: read my novel 'Thaw' for free

"These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides."

Fiona writes: So begins the diary of Ruth, a 32 year old microbiologist in London who is giving herself three months to decide whether or not to kill herself.

Her diary over those three months is my novel, Thaw. It's not for the faint-hearted.

You can read the whole novel for free, with no catches, here.

This blog been there for a little while - originally Ruth's diary entries appeared day by day and people read them in real time. A surprising number kept reading until the very end...

Kaspa has just redesigned the blog rather beautifully, and I've just spent a few hours adding a 'turn the page' link to the bottom of every post to make it like a proper book and everything.

If you'd rather read it on a more forgiving screen or in the bath, here are the links to the Kindle in the UK (only £2.46) or US ($3.87) or at Amazon UK or Amazon US. You can find my other novels there too.

Enjoy, and if you do enjoy, do tell your friends.  

What to do when it becomes unbearable

‎"What hurts you, blesses you.
Darkness is your candle.
Your boundaries are your quest."
~Rumi

Fiona writes: An organisation I am very deeply and personally involved with has (and is) going through a terribly difficult time.

It has caused me and others a great deal of sadness, stress, anger and disappointment. It has led me to question my involvement with the organisation at all, which feels almost unthinkable.

Instructions for submitting to our 2012 'River of Stones' anthology

Kaspa & I will be putting together an anthology of small stones from this year's river.

We'd love to have a submission from everyone who took part - do send us your small stones whether or not you think they'll be included in the book.

As last time this collection will be edited by me & Kaspa - we'll choose the small stones that resonate most with us.

Look at the last collection here (pictured) for an idea of what we're looking for.

Here are the instructions:

Email up to FIVE small stones and your name as you'd like to be included in the book to kaspa@writingourwayhome.com with the subject 'river book'.

Submissions will close on Sunday the 19th of February.

We won't be acknowledging receipt, but we'll let you know whether your small stone will be included or not by the end of March. If you haven't from us either way by then do let us know and resend your submission.

All contributors will receive a free PDF of the finished book as a thank you.

We look forward to reading them very much.

River of Stones News

What an amazing River we had. I am still hearing about people writing and talking about small stones, that I didn't know about. Each one of them giving their attention to one thing each day during January and writing it down.

What now? In due course we'll be creating another book, and we'll open submissions at some point for that. We're also working on getting Fiona's fourth novel The Most Beautiful Thing into the world.  I'm finishing writing a brand new e-course for March, and of course we'll be blogging here about mindful writing as usual.

As part of the River of Stones this year Amy from Half Assed Mamma created a blog roll of small stoneblogs for us. It was on the sidebar of this site all through January and I loved clicking and seeing what each of you was writing.

Now that January is over I've taken that blogroll down, but I'm preserving it at the bottom of the post here for posterity, (click read more to see the whole thing) and so you can bookmark your favorite small stone blogs.

I know there were people writing in January who weren't on this list, either writing in their journals, or quietly posting on a blog somewhere. We also had people posting small stones on twitter and facebook.

Thank you to everyone who wrote, and paid attention. Although the January challenge is over - keep writing!

Why you might stop reading this post before you reach the end of the first sentence

Fiona writes: Before you get to the end of this sentence, most of you will stop reading.

Some of you will be outraged by my opinions on spirituality, or weary of how I always go on about cats/cake/money, or just plain uninterested in the things I write about.

Some of you will be looking for an article about spider monkeys or a picture of plum blossom, or will be gasping for a cup of coffee.

I’m not affected by those in the second category but, in vulnerable moments, I worry about the first.

You might also worry about speaking up – at work, to your friends and family, in your spiritual/political/social groups.

These are the things that help me to keep launching words into the world:

Think of the wren

Why Regret?

Didn't you like the way the ants help
the peony globes open by eating the glue off?
Weren't you cheered to see the ironworkers
sitting on an I-beam dangling from a cable,
in a row, like starlings, eating lunch, maybe
baloney on white with fluorescent mustard?

... Think of the wren
and how little flesh is needed to make a song...

~ Galway Kinnell

read the rest of the poem here

Photo via Creative Commons by Jason Paluck with gratitude.