Fall is right around the corner, and everywhere I sense the approaching tang of autumn and cycles curving back around. Thanks to you, dear supporters, I’ve transitioned into a new phase: sending query letters and proposal packages to this agent and that publisher, and my newest touchstones seem to be patience and resilience. Each step brings surprises;… Continue reading Seasons are Changing, and the Hunt for a Publisher is ON!
For the Touchstone of Integration, I have selected a tiny amethyst as my reminder because integration occurs in the subtlest ways: Pay attention to the signs.
For many years, I posted a photo of Tiki or Bamboo any time I managed to squeeze at least a half-hour of writing into my day. Dubbed my Cats of Creation, they chivvied me from bed to writing nook for nearly a decade, where they listened to me read chapters aloud and offered their meeps of approval and salty Siamese commentary.
As the crowdfunding campaign for this project drew to a close, I allowed spirit to be my guide. This short video, introducing the Touchstone of Spirit, was recorded last January, and I shiver to think of everything that has transpired since then.
"Open cup or closed cup?" Hilary opens a phone call with these words, and I can hear her grinning. I've confessed to Hilary that she's my favorite processing partner, and it's mostly due to prompts like these that invite me to try out the words of my own story.
I must confess. I was totally unprepared to meet this campaign's goal with a few days to spare. The shock of it-- the gravity of my gratitude-- is still settling in.
Nancy chose "Joy" as her Touchstone that very first year of the project, and when I asked after the details, she emphasized the necessity of making a "stubborn commitment to joy."
One of Na'la's superpowers is in the fine art of the check-in. When Na'la and I sit down to talk, time loses all relevance. We've become so absorbed in conversation that she has literally missed flights.
Majda has taught me about the sacred and the sacrifice. Driving up to a mountain retreat, the Harvest Moon nestled into the valleys between the peaks like an exclamation point, we wrestled with conceptions around time, space, and our own bodies.
When I hear the word compassion, my first thoughts dance around the act of offering it: offering someone compassion. There's always an object, a recipient of the compassionate act. And how rare it is that I am the object of my own compassion . . .