Monday honors the Moon. Make its energy work for you by understanding what sort of work you should be doing:
On Mondays, know that you can begin a great, productive week by honoring the feminine energy of the day. Be receptive to what presents itself and reflect on those aspects of your work that could be done better or with more depth.
I wrote more extensively on the topic in my Wholly Creative blog post today, which discusses more about the magic of moon energy.
You might even honor its energy by incorporating the moon in whatever it is you are writing today.
If the idea of combining magic and writing appeals to you, check out this 13-week online workshop.
I love a good ritual! A few years back I invented a ritual to celebrate the new year and honor the things I wanted for myself and my life.
It started as an urge to give others what they most wanted. Just before Christmas 2015, I had been brainstorming gift ideas for a couple of close friends. I wanted something that would be meaningful but wouldn’t be expensive. I had squirreled away some giant mugs with spiritual quotes that seemed like a good start, but I didn’t just want to stuff them with candy (so impersonal!) or give an empty mug (symbolically awful!).
I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great if I could give the people I love what their hearts most desire?”
The rest came to me pretty quickly. I conceived of a variation on a floral arrangement in the mug: “The Manifestation Tree.” It would be an attractively arranged bunch of branches from which paper leaves were hung by ribbons. On the leaves, goals, desires, or dreams could be written down with the intention of the growing them into existence.
It was everything: affordable, meaningful, symbolic, and practical.
I gathered fallen branches in a eucalyptus grove. Then I went to the craft store for the rest of the supplies: florist’s foam, decorative moss, silver spray paint, ribbon, craft paper, permanent markers. I selected silver spray paint and shimmery craft paper to create a magical feel, and then I chose ribbon colors specific to my friends’ personalities. My Buddhist friend would get a purple-ribboned tree in a black mug with an image of Buddha; and my yogini friend would get a aqua-blue ribboned tree in a blue mug with the lord Ganesha, remover of obstacles.
My friends appreciated their gifts, keeping them up for the season and then saving the mug when the branches had served their purpose.
I was so in love with my invention that I made an identical blue tree for myself, and it still stands. My manifestation tree sits on my kitchen table year round, a sort of altar in the my home’s nerve center of growth: the place where I nourish, heal, and warm myself.
I’ve watched as each of the intentions I wrote down manifested one by one. The leaves were a visual reminder of what I wanted in my life, and I believe moved me toward what I wanted. As I identified new goals, I wrote them down and added them to the tree.
The tree is rather full now, and I’ve seen most of what I intended come to fruition. This year, I may begin removing the leaves that have manifested to make room for new ones to grow. It seems fitting that these leaves be sent up in fire or stored in a special place.
In these final days of summer, let’s take time to honor the season’s fiery energy before it’s gone. That fire manifests itself in lots of activity, frequently recreational activities, because the days are longer and we feel more alive, and because the season’s heat is balanced by the cooling qualities of play and leisure, which restore and rejuvenate us.
They don’t call it recreation, for nothing.
In agriculture, the summer is the period of growth and maturation, catalyzed by all that abundant sunlight. Fall is the season of harvest — that time where we reap the benefits of the seeds we planted in spring. We see the farmer’s calendar reflected in the school year, which is why we have the summer off to play, and in fall and spring we work.
Often the fun we’ve had during the summer is perceived as less productive (and therefore less valuable) than other times of year when we are hard at work. This true only if we are measuring our productivity in terms of external achievements rather than internal growth.
Because I teach a full course load of college classes and run my own creative coaching business, I certainly need my goof-off time just for sanity’s sake. Summertime is when I get it. Sometimes I’m down on myself for what feels like an indulgence; I often overlook how much I’m actually getting done while I’m “doing nothing.”
This summer was no exception. By summer’s end, I groaned at how little I’d done in the way of crossing things off my “To Do” list. I was pretty close to giving myself a hard time about my lack of discipline. But then I thought about how much got done (intentional use of the passive voice, folks!) while I was doing nothing.
While I was off playing and having a great time, I underwent important, transformational growth. For instance, I met a wonderful someone with whom I deeply connected and thereby received not only a summer playmate, but a growth accelerator. The romance sparked my imagination and ignited my heart, but it also aroused fear and touched old wounds. As the fiery energy of summer kindled desire and affection, it helped me burn through some of the debris of the past.
Moving into the fall, I have an opportunity to create stories and essays from my summer experiences, harvesting the wisdom from my my growth. Like that old Christian hymn says, I will be “bringing in the sheaves” (sheaves are bundles of grain) that matured during the sunny season. And I will rejoice the planting, growing, and harvesting as I write.
Writing is how I thresh and winnow, separating the wheat from the chaff (or rice from the chaff, for those of us who are gluten-free). To continue the metaphor, ultimately, this process is how I make my dough, make a living, sustain myself. It’s how I became a “real writer.”
Remember that essay your teacher made you write on what you did during your summer vacation? Why not write one now?
Now that we just celebrated the solstice, summer is officially in session. Woohoo! Who doesn’t love the fun, high-energy playfulness of summer? You’d think that energy might be great for your creative projects, and you’d be right — that is, if you weren’t so busy doing so many other things.
The challenge of summer is that while energy is high and life feels vibrant, the energy can make us scattered and the disruption of our schedules that come in the form of school breaks, holiday weekends, and recreational travel can actually undermine our projects. We get so swamped with all the fun, that frequently our writing is left unattended and our projects drown.
Glug, glug, glug…
But the thing is, you need that fun! You need to be restored and rejuvenated, to play and let go. So the answer isn’t to just buckle down and ignore the beckoning of the beach, or the lure of the lake, or the seduction of … well, whatever siren is singing to you. Go ahead, get wet and enjoy the float and splash!
But before you do, put a life jacket on your creativity.
No PFD in Marina Del Rey!
I’m wearing the red hat (and no PFD)!
This PFD (personal flotation device) comes in the form a schedule. Wait….Don’t run away. I swear you’re going to love this idea. Because you’re going to schedule all the FUN STUFF first to give you a clear picture of how much fun you’re going to be having!
I like to have my summer at a glance, and so instead of monthly calendar, I grabbed a giant piece of butcher block paper and drew out June, July and August. Then I wrote in my concert plans, camping trips, sailing excursions, creativity conferences, and community festivals. I added in poetry slams, literary readings, concerts, and picnics. Oh, good gracious, I started to really look forward to this amazing summer!
Then I also had a clear view of how much time I had left to get to my writing and to accomplish my creative goals. It was suddenly clear how I had to buckle down during the time that had not been allotted to play and really focus on what I wanted to get completed.
The great thing about summer is that its energy — fire element — is actually conducive to this sort of focus; that is, if we aren’t too distracted by the need to balance that fierce fiery energy with the cooling, playful qualities of water element.
The BIG PICTURE SCHEDULE makes it easier for me to see how much fun I’ve already got planned and to say “no” when I get invitations that are going to keep me from my goals.
For those of you who have been following this blog and attending my webinars, you’ll recognize this scheduling as an Earth element approach, which grounds and contains both the Water and the Fire. Because we’ve just come out of spring — the season governed by Air element — we’ve carried its inspiration with us. Now it’s just our job to tend to those spring creative seedlings and make sure they get the attention they need.
While the stars were out last night, I was dreaming crazy dreams. I mean C-R-A-Z-Y.
When the sun rose, and I awoke, I began writing.
Magic was afoot, and it was evident because something was out of balance. Someone had imposed his or her will on the land, and the result was a frenzy of wings. Every sort of bird took to the sea and sky and found space among the four-legged animals that crowded the land. It felt scary, an omen of some kind…
…a villainess and her entourage want your home, which has no doors only elaborate passages between rooms, but more — she seems to want YOU. There is some power you hold that you are unaware of. She tries to control you by taking away what you love — Ashley and Oliver, your daughter and your cat. You know who you are when you are with them — because you serve each other and give each other reasons to live, to go out, to go on, and to come home. These are the attachments that fortify you. When they disappear, you are as concerned for them as you are for yourself. You ask about the chaos of animals outside. She says, “A creativity spell.”
You know what you must do, but do not know how.
You begin to cast a spell you can barely recall that you saw once in a book. You spell R-E-G-I-N-A out, tracing each letter with a finger in the air. Then shave the first letter off, E-G-I-N-A. Then G-I-N-A. Each letter is supposed to represent something, hold some power. “S” you remember stands for “Sin” but there is no “S” in “Regina” and you think maybe you’ve remembered the spell wrong, but you go on. Because now that you are powerless, faith is all you have. Faith, and this magically enhanced land, and this doorless house, and though you are uncertain of your power, you know it’s valuable because other people have come for it. You need to learn about your own abilities, understand your own resources. You have to become your own teacher.
Writing down snippets of imagery and story from my dreams has helped me glean their messages. I do more than merely recording the events, which is often boring and time-consuming because I dream so much. But as I write into, rather than about, the dream images and feelings while I am still waking up, I awaken to the depth of the messages.
From this dream, I realized I’d been resisting financial success and material gain because it made me feel vulnerable on many levels — spiritually, emotionally, and physically. I also realized I don’t entirely trust creativity or understand my own power. Still, I rule (Regina means queen) and can create change with words and writing … even in thin air.
WOW! Huge messages that I would have missed if I simply woke up and said, “Dude, I had some crazy-ass dreams last night.”
Some mornings I wake up and write into the dream just to record characters, images or plot.
Like this recent entry:
No one was certain but they speculated she’d been eaten by alligators, having spent so much time among them. She was once queen of the forest, connoisseur of the bramble and buzz, cheerleader for the chaos of nature. She appreciated its logic. She knew the alligators and did not fear them. She watched them float at the surface, creep from the black Florida muck, and slide into the darkly steeped rivers. Every river was alligator soup, teaming with decay, which was nourishment, more that she’d ever received on either side of the desk in a classroom. She thought, “It won’t pay much, but at least I’ll make a difference.” But teaching was full of its own kinds of gators — bureaucratic administrators and entitled parents would drag a teacher under and let a child’s education rot there with her. So to save the only one she could, she retreated to the bureaucracy of the forest. And then she quit the forest to farm the land. So when the young boy went missing near the banks of the Loxahatchee where she’d also gone to hike that day, folks pretty much assumed instinct overcame the logic, and she’d tried to wrestle a gator to save the boy. Or at least that’s how people were telling it from the cracked vinyl seats of Curley’s over their coffees and pancakes.
Every time I write a dream down, it becomes real. Solid. Like a planet, the story orbits me during the day. Often, I am aware of several of them orbiting at the same time. Each dream is its own world, and I am its sun. I may not be the center of the universe, but I am the star of my very own solar system.
Not everyone dreams as vividly and frequently as I do, obviously. Some may recall their dreams only infrequently. Still, even these occasional recollections can provide some fantastic source material for writers, artists and other creative thinkers. The trick is tapping in…
Sign-up for my free online Dream Writing workshop: Discover Inner Wisdom & Creative Gold. Wake up and dream on! Attend the live webinar Saturday, February 27, 2016 at 11 am PST. Or watch in replay.
So many times I’ve heard the “essay in my head” or the “poem in my head,” the words effortless and organically stringing themselves together, the ideas and the cadences apt. Perfectly so. The ideas and words just flow in my mind, a perfect spontaneous composition.
Then I grab a pen to capture the stream of word-tumble feeling-thought, so I can claim, publish, own this exquisite expression. But the ideas just sort of land on the page without the same life in them, without the same depth or beauty.
I remember pulling a fish from the Atlantic ocean — the fish’s other-worldly iridescence, the powerful aliveness of muscular swish-jerk from its center. And then, later, how it just lay there — limp, cold, and grey.
That’s how it feels so often after trying to get down the composition in my head and put it on the page. So often, it feels like that fish that does not want to be pulled from its boundless, buoyant element.
The imagination is an ocean — all potential. When we conceive a creation in our minds, it is limitless, lovely and perfect. But when we manifest it, we bring it down from the realm of the mind (thought) into the world of the body (senses). As the abstract becomes concrete, the infinite becomes finite. Embodying, grounding, manifesting: these mean limitation.
I have to come back to this principle time and again. To remember that my willingness to create must co-exist with an acceptance of imperfection. That my desire to have and to hold what I have imagined may come at the cost. But, oh, how delicious those inspirations can be when they are lovingly prepared.
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She was attractive and affluent woman who lived in the Caribbean. Diamonds gleamed on her ring finger. Her blond hair was sunny, her style was carefree, but her expression was grim. (But I’ll call her “Sunny” here anyway.)
“I feel like I lost my mojo,” Sunny said on the mic at the creativity conference we were both attending. “I don’t even know what I want to do anymore.”
Sunny identified as a writer, a life coach, and public speaker. She had degrees in nursing and writing.
“The themes ‘faith’ and ‘boundaries’ keep coming up for me,” she told the leader of the conference, “but I don’t know what to do with them.”
The conference leader asked her what sort of work would make her feel better.
Sunny replied, “I just want people to come in and spend time with me and leave feeling happy and good.”
“That sounds like a show,” the leader responded.
And that’s when Sunny became, well, sunny. Her face lit up.
“Would you like to do a show about faith and boundaries?” the leader asked, with a smile that indicted she and everyone else in the room already knew the answer just looking at the change in Sunny.
“I don’t even know what that would look like,” Sunny stammered, but her inner light sparkled. She was clearly excited about the possibility of this new prospect. It was clear she’d found her mojo.
That’s when I started thinking about mojo. “Lost my mojo” was how Sunny described an emotional state of powerlessness and depression that created a downward spiral. Disconnection from her potential and from the possibilities manifested as shut down. She found her power by reconnecting, not in action but in feelings. She didn’t know what she wanted exactly, but she knew what feeling state she wanted to create for others and she’d been paying attention to the words that kept presenting themselves as she’d talked. Together, the words and the feelings had power; therein lay the mojo – the magic.
Dialogue, like the one Sunny had with conference leader, creates a sort of stream. Its movement of language and emotion carries us through our blocks and helps us identify solutions that will make us feel better and identify solutions. If you are feeling a little lost, try writing down what you are feeling and what you feel like you need. Pay attention to the themes that emerge or the words that repeat themselves. You can highlight or underline key words or start a new page and write them down as a mind map to guide you to the solution.
I jogged in place in three-and-a-half feet of cool water, warming my muscles, while I watched the sun stream its golden light into a blue sky and fill the white clouds with iridescence. Foghat pounded from a big, plastic boom box, and I kept pace with the steady, driving beat of “Slow Ride” while the pool filled with bodies.
For the next hour, on the command of the water aerobics instructor, all thirty of us swooshed right and left with the kickboard in our arms or waved our arms overhead and bounced up and down in a series of jumping jacks or whatever it was we were told to do while 100.3 The Sound offered a continuing stream of classic rock.
But my attention was on the sky. Several women also turned away from the instructor and gazed toward the swollen, setting sun as we exercised.
“Beautiful,” said the woman next to me, acknowledging our shared experience.
While we kicked, lunged, jumped, and swooshed, the sky’s blue turned to striated pastels. The clouds became pink and then bruised slowly, first on their bottoms; then the purple seeped up, overtook the pinks, and swallowed the rosy glow in their scalloped tops. Quickly then, purple became ash.
“Such dramatic change,” I thought, my mind turning toward how I often resist and resent change, even when it comes in the span of years rather than a few minutes.
That me – earthbound and limited – seemed foolish and small now to this me, immersed in the pool and expanding awareness. I was more than in the moment.
Time stretched – and I with it – as the music pulled me into a non-specific nostalgia for a past era, the water and movement anchored me in the present, and the trajectory of the sun and its myriad sky effects, still working on the Western horizon, pulled me into the future. I was in five decades at once. Maybe more.
On my back, I held on to the lane line, scissor-kicking and gazing up into the now blue-black expanse of the sky where time seemed to reach out in all directions. I felt myself move with it, transcending mere presence. Weightless and timeless, I felt myself expanding toward omnipresence.
“This must be what it’s like to be God,” I thought, not with self-importance but with awe.
This side of heaven and still time-bound, class ended at 8. The bodies began to emerge from the pool. While people wrapped themselves in towels, I did a handstand. I turned a few somersaults. I stroked the surface of the radiant blue water, which had become more beautiful now that it twinkled in the pool lights, wanting to stay.
“It’s time,” I thought, making my way toward the steps. My fingers were water-logged. My bladder was full.
Back on the pool deck, I felt a different pull. Gravity.
As I picked up my towel and made my way toward the exit, everything felt twice as heavy as it had before I’d gotten in the pool. And I wasn’t ready to be burdened again – not physically with the weight of the world, nor mentally by the conventions of linear time and thinking.
“Nope,” I thought. “Not yet.”
Tossing my towel toward the bleachers, I took several large and eager steps and plunged back in.
I feel pregnant: abundant, full of life, physically crowded, moody, hopeful, expectant, and a little exhausted. I’m incubating ideas for my writing, my teaching, and my coaching business. All this from my bedroom…my bed, actually, since the 120 square feet is not enough to include a separate workspace. Some women get bed rest when they have difficult pregnancies. Not me, I’ve got bed work…and my baby is the work itself.
I’ve got notepads, pens, a lap top, books, and a coffee cup on a queen-sized pillow top. I’m propped against pillows with a cat curled up beside me as I write. My former office – my 200 square foot living room — is occupied by former baby, now my adult daughter, who has moved across the country and is living, working, sleeping on my couch. I’m thrilled as always by her arrival and take pleasure in her company, even though the apartment is a tiny place meant for one person with a day job, not two people, two cats, and a small business.
I know this is why literal pregnancies have limits — conception and growth are followed by delivery. We can only contain so much.
I know this is why I must sit down and write, too. The ideas, the words, and the emotions want to come. They are ready. They crowd me. If I do not make room for them, anxiety comes like labor pains.
The fullness is not always comfortable, but I remember not to complain. I learn to make space. This is what abundance looks like. My craft, my calling, my daughter and animals. My life full of warmth, tenderness, and purpose in this tiny, sunlit haven on the coast of Southern California.
All this is full. All that is full. From fullness, fullness comes. When fullness is taken from fullness, fullness remains. So say the Upanishads.
The nature of life: fullness — what flows in, how we expand and accommodate, what flows out and into the world.
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I’ve never thought of myself as a tree hugger. I mean, I love nature. I enjoy sailing, hiking, sunbathing, kayaking, and bike riding. I’ve even done some protesting of GMOs.
But I know people deeply committed to eco-preservation. These people chain themselves to trees or to each other and block destruction of the environment, like the Everglades, enduring heat, injury, and dehydration, until the authorities eventually haul them away to jail. I deeply admire these people. Still, I don’t see myself as a tree hugger. I mean, I admire martial artists. That doesn’t make me a ninja.
Still, I surprised myself the other day when I did everything short of hugging a tree to make myself feel better. Here’s what was going on:
For no real reason other than it was a Tuesday, my chest was tight and there was lump in my throat. One way I deal with anxiety is to dial up my productivity. Sometimes it helps.
On the Tuesday in question, I applied for a DBA for Wholly Creative, learned online software to help my business, organized my workspace, brainstormed with my assistant about other opportunities, and met a friend for lunch. I felt powerful, full of momentum. After lunch, I crashed for a half hour and took a nap. But by the afternoon, the tension was still there in my chest and throat.
So I tried the opposite approach: do less.
I walked to to the beach. I wrote for a little while. I watched the children throwing buckets of water at each other, the waves rolling in, couples sitting on blankets in the soft sand together, the golden light of the setting sun bathing the whole scene in such magical light that even the garbage seemed enchanted. But the breeze, waves, and sunset didn’t do much for the constriction I still felt, like an unseen hand was reaching down my throat and squeezing my heart.
I packed up my things as the breeze blew colder, and as I walked toward home, I was drawn to the coral tree that stood in the grassy area along the beach. It’s complex root structure fascinated me. Its branches rolled like cursive into the punctuation of bumps and nubs.
I slowly approached the tree, more curious than committed to an action, still with this discomfort, this dull aching in my chest and throat. I thought about doing a couple lion’s breaths, sticking out my tongue with a forceful exhale, which sometimes helped a little.
Instead I began talking to the tree. “Hi there. You’re an interesting tree. Do you mind if I sit here?” I climbed onto the horizontal portion of the trunk and settled in. “I used to have another tree friend back in Florida.”
And then I began to tell this tree about another tree, a Green Buttonwood, that used to grow along the sea wall in Lake Worth. I used to sit on its similarly sideways trunk and listen to the waves slop against the seawall while I wrote. The days I spent there with the tree, I unburdened so much in the pages of my notebook. During our time together, I went through several boyfriends, my father died, I went back to graduate school, my daughter moved in with me and I became a full-time mom. I experienced and learned so much with that tree, that I developed a relationship with it. I started to call it my tree.
Then the fences went up. Hurricanes and time had damaged the sea wall, and a restoration project was underway. I couldn’t get to my tree without climbing under the fence. I wrote the city a letter expressing my concern about the tree. I was told by the city’s arborist that there were others who inquired, too, and that the city was looking into what could be done to preserve the tree.
One night as I walked in the moonlight to the park, I let out a howl. The tree had been uprooted. Its trunk and limbs, sawed into pieces, were in a pile.
“Murderers!” I shrieked and ran toward the fence. I lifted the chain link and crawled under it. Surveying the damage, I let out a roar, as much furious at my helplessness as at the person or people who had done this. And then began to sob. I rested my hand on a large limb, as I looked at the severed pieces lying casually on the grass.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.” I cried in the darkness as the leaves limply hung from their drying branches. “I tried. I didn’t know what else to do.”
That night I walked home with a bundle of smaller branches in one arm, dragging one large leafy branch behind me. Weeks later when they had dried enough to burn, I lit a funeral pyre and said goodbye. I saved one two inch piece of a large branch from the fire. It moved with me to California. I keep it on my altar.
I told this story to my new tree friend as we sat together looking out at the ocean. And then I settled in to write a poem about a girl in a tree. “Her heart relaxes in this hammock of arteries and veins.”