Making Big Magic

Making Big Magic

(w/ Elizabeth Gilbert)

Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert is, for lack of a better word, my Bible. It, along with a few other important creative resources, is my go-to when I find myself facing a dry well, blocked, too sad or overwhelmed to write or send a handwritten letter, even compose a grocery list. My hard cover copy, to the dismay of some of my dear hearts, is dog-eared, littered with underlined passages, margin scribbles, and stuck with Post-It Notes. You can imagine my utter delight when I heard she’d be coming to town to workshop said book. Overjoyed. Sign me up! I counted sleeps for months until the fateful day arrived.

Friday, the last work day before a long weekend had me busy as a bee. With my 4pm departure looming, I hurried and toiled until the eleventh hour but hadn’t noticed a colossal mistake I’d made. A mistake that would cause someone else extra work, someone who didn’t need something else added to her plate. I deflated. My joy turned to guilt, my guilt turned to pain. I do not like to make mistakes, especially ones that cause someone else work and/or worry. That’s how my Making Big Magic weekend started. With a giant flub that sat on my chest like an elephant. Even my ferry ride across the Halifax Harbour didn’t help. I stared out across the grey expanse with the sick feeling that in my rush to joy, I let someone down. And, I didn’t know how to shake it off.

I checked into my room at Hotel Halifax with about forty minutes until the Scotia Square mall closed. I decided to venture up to quickly browse the shops and grab a muffin and orange juice to store in my room’s mini-fridge. Still feeling like a loser, I made my way through the lobby and started up the stairs to the mall. Elizabeth Gilbert, at the very same time, was descending. She was clad warm gear (which makes sense because not long before she posted on her Instagram she was on the very cold Halifax Waterfront), she was looking down at her phone. Whatever she was watching/reading warmed her. Because I was feeling like I was, I almost let the opportunity to say hello go by. It is my common practice when I see someone of note to let them go quietly and smile to myself. I’m not one to bother folks. But, it was Elizabeth Gilbert. I said, “Hi, Liz Gilbert.” She looked up from her phone with happy eyes and a smile that enveloped me. “Hi, Sweetheart,” she replied in kind. We chatted only moments and somehow my bad day came up but I am convinced I mentioned it because I was so close to tears. I thought at least if she is aware of the day, she won’t think I’m crying because I was in front of her. I suppose it did have something to do with it. Our meet cute, in my mind, was cosmic. I was meant to run into her on those very stairs. Having the chance to say hello, was the Universe’s antidote to my day. Her hug was a salve. I bid hear adieu, feeling more like a million bucks and told her I was really looking forward to work-shopping with her in the morning. She said, “It’s going to be beautiful. See you there!” I found my goodies for breakfast and impulse bought a cozy coat sweater from Reitmans and then it was time to find dinner. I made my way across the pedway to Casino NS, parked myself at the loud crowded bar and had a bite. Rock Star Brother was playing at 9pm so I lingered long enough for a quick check-in, a hug, a few songs, and I was back in my room to do my gratitude homework. I shared with Liz I had created a gratitude bomb, something she invented for journaling. She was pleased as punch! To follow it up, I did a Thanksgiving list while sprawled out on my very own King size bed with Spotify on low. Before long, with the giant video screen on the side of the Scotia Bank Center as my night light, I drifted off with my good thoughts until my 7am alarm sounded.

One of the things on my Thanksgiving list was hotel showers. I enjoyed a long luxurious shower (so sorry Mother Earth, I know water is precious but I do conserve otherwise!) and prepared for the day. I registered for the workshop at the Convention Center, up on the 5^th floor, mingled and made friends while waiting for the doors to open. Elizabeth Gilbert stood at the entrance and hugged each and every person who passed through the door. Including me. Two hugs! I moved swiftly so she could keep up the pace and found my seat. Once in, I said hello to the lovely strangers to my left and right. Strangers I spent the day with, sharing some super intimate stuff. We may or may not cross paths again but I’ll always be grateful to them for their tender attention and their trust in me with their own intimate details.

The workshop was set up in a series of letters. We were required to write deep, detailed letters to our Fear, Enchantment, Persistence, Trust, and a series of Permission Slips. I won’t share all of my letters here because much of what I composed and shared with my soul sister counterparts is private. Some of the work was difficult. Some of it was joyful. All of it was enlightening.

I want to share my letter to Fear with you. It goes like this:

Dear Nicole,

This is your Fear. This is what I want to say to you.

I am afraid that I am not enough. Not good enough. Smart enough. I am afraid I am no worthy of romantic love. I am afraid I will be alone and not know what it is to walk side by side with a partner regards me with kindness and respect.

I am afraid I am too obese to be touched. Scared my body will prevent someone from wanting me, all of me.

I am afraid to fail. Every damn day.

I am afraid that in taking care of everyone else I’ll have nothing else left for me when I really need it.

I am afraid of confrontation.

I am scared of gas-lighting.

I am afraid of losing those I love from death, from speaking my mind, from having a differing opinion.

I am afraid of conforming to other people’s moods.

I am afraid of being too cautious, enough to miss real opportunities.

I am afraid of being so strong all the time I might fall apart at the worst possible time.

I am afraid of my own infinite potential because I am aware of it and know I can soar.

I am, sometimes, afraid to die,

Thank you for listening.

Yours,

Fear

I read this aloud to my Lovely Stranger. My voice cracked. I stuttered once or twice, I paused for a hard swallow. She was no different. We were both in tears. We smiled to each other. And then, for the big sob.

Liz invited another Lovely Stranger to come forth, put her back to the room, and read what she wrote aloud. Once she was finished, she asked her to repeat the first line of her letter again, I am afraid I am not enough. Ahem. Liz then regarded us, asked anyone who said something similar to stand up. All at once, the entire room rose. Liz then asked Lovely Stranger to turn and face her peers. The moment she did, there was a collective sob. The memory of it as I type brings tears to my eyes. It was a heavy exercise. It was hard but liberating. The rest of the letters especially that to our Enchantment, was amazing. It started: Dear Nicole, I am your Enchantment. This is what I want to tell you. I love when we have artist dates … essentially, I gorgeous letter full of all the things that enchant, bring joy, fulfillment. I could have written that one for days.

Elizabeth Gilbert is a beautiful human being. An enlightened teacher who still carries her own burdens and isn’t afraid to admit she is still a work in progress. The things I learned from her I will carry with me my whole life. It’ll show up in my creative endeavors, it’ll appear in my relationships, at my workplace, in the streets, in the comfort of my own home. It was a day full of goodness, kindness, bonding, sharing, honesty, heart-rending joy. Liz put me in touch with myself. Taught me about my brain, my Spirit, my whole self. In a way that made the world crack wide open so Light could flood forth. If you ever have the chance to hear her speak, to take part in a workshop, please do. Do not hesitate. It was one of the most profound experiences of my adult life. It was a gratitude bomb personified.

I was so blessed to have been there. Grateful to have taken away so much that I will apply to my life and my writing.

In propinquity,

Nic

Of Song

Of Song

on a

night of February

torrents and squalls

I sat vigil, ear to the

radio

            a songwriter

pooled his lyrics

stark admissions

of what estranges, in

stereo, it

felt like

thousand s of

fingers moving through

me      

            as he described

the advantages of what

plagued turning

into art

the fire

he brought was beautiful

with no mind of the cost

to his awareness

                        and then it

befell me how we

respond

rocking and rolling

up and down amid pulsing

crowds of warm beer cups

bellowing

            a songwriter’s

words back in fast-paced

glossed-over empathy

in unison

the kind of compliment that

            might drag a hero to

hell

            night after night after

night

***

It was something that struck me. Thinking of someone writing their inner-most thoughts down on a piece of paper, inside of a notebook, on a bar napkin or the flap of a cigarette package.  It hit me, an artist culling all of their demons in to put expel them in song.  

I have great respect for artists who do this, in any medium. But, those who climb up on a stage and bleed for us, with us, are extraordinary.

This poem is a direct reaction to the wonder of what it must be like to be laid bare for the world, your soul wide open to a room full of people. What’s it like when those looking up and singing back at you identify? What’s it like when they don’t? What’s it like when you hear a million hurts being sung back to you? What’s it like to have them fall on deaf ears? I wonder. I wonder. I wonder.

I love songwriters. I admire their candor. I hurt because they have, rejoice when they overcome, and appreciate that I can find myself in their works. Music is medicine, it saves – the songwriter, the listener. Its catharsis, therapy, healing.

A little Teapot update to tide me (maybe even you) over until I’m finished a new piece of short fiction.

In propinquity,

Nic

Choose Happy w/ Little Poems

Choose Happy w/ Little Poems

The Morning After

orange juice

concentrate

romantic

severance

***

Shopkeeper’s Lunch

long uphill

walks for

soba noodles

back in fifteen

minutes

***

Role Model

he keeps lists

of long words

in a notebook

some are

underlined in

red ink for

dramatic effect

***

Archivist

illicit symmetry

existential vertigo

two things that

rebound and plunge

into reticent habits

of mourning

logged for posterity

***

Crush

/w a motorcycle

helmet tucked up

under his arm he

watches a hover

of birds in awe of

how they accept

their own riddles

***

Hope Is A Pleasure

surprise tangents

soft epiphanies

spiritual and literal

turns you toward

excerpted texts for

the lost and the lonely

***

You

you strike me as

someone who is

angry and sad by

the exact way your

conjugated pleasures

suppressions and

ejections reveal the

consequences of your

elegiac engagements

***

Wish

to be one of those

a melancholic capture

perched atop a red round

silver rimmed leather stool

curved over the slender

countertop of an all-night

diner – waiting

***

Guilty

illogical eddies of

assonance become me

***

It felt very ‘Sillyheart’ to be jotting down teeny tiny poems the last day or so. I started a ‘commonplace book’ for this very sort of thing and I do confess that I used the tried and true scraps of paper to scribble them down until they could be typed up. I might suck. In my defense, I had a little too much in my work -bag the last few days and it’s on the verge of ripping. My work bag is my favorite so I’m preserving it for as long as I can, so paper. I have been recording quotes and things inside though. It’s been a great exercise in restraint but I turned to the comfort of scrap paper the past few days. Perhaps we can co-mingle?

I hit a bit of a dry spell after writing ‘French Kissing Freddy Emerson’ so all these little poems felt like little bursts of joy and I’m happy to share them now. I’ve also stalled a little on the ‘Sillyheart’ edit but she’s constantly in my ear. Life gets in the way now and then and that’s okay. Work is work is work, right?

In propinquity,

Nic

On The Verge

On The Verge

linger there

on the verge of

            hysteria

& imagine this

scene

            renowned

playwright takes

refuge in his hotel

room

            lights up a

cigarette & pours

himself

a drink

of wine

lays back

& considers

a barbiturate

            binge

drunkenly

agreeable

            he intends

to

throw

back a

generous handful

            measured

out

in the

overcap

of

an

eye-drop

bottle

            swallowed

them all

one careless gulp

pills

overcap

            asphyxia

cold

self-contempt

expires

            reassurance

required

no more

            a last act of

torment

***

I didn’t know anything about how Tennessee Williams died until last night when watching an old re-run of an Anthony Bourdain show. He quipped at one point that Williams choked on a bottle cap and died. It stuck with me and so I poked around the internet a bit looking for clues. And, because I did, a poem.

There are of course conflicting reports about the cause of death and whether or not it was accidental or intentional. Some speculate they used the bottle cap story to preserve his reputation. I don’t think it would much matter given the brave work he put into our world, rich characters of the lost, sensitive, defeated, deviant, peculiar, and invisible. His stories stand the test of time, my dinky poem likely not so much.

Oh, it’s Friday! I’m in the homestretch of a work day and looking forward to loud music tomorrow night with my best bud. But, until then, I’ll work until the supper bell rings and carry on home with my nose tucked in my book until I’m home with my cat and can unwind.

In propinquity,

Nic

The Chapel

The Chapel

Wilma was never miracle-minded. If anything, she regarded those with the spiritual instinct as naïve, callow even. And, then Ivy fell ill, ailing with the kind of sickness most don’t recover from. No mother should ever have to watch her baby suffer was all she could say when others dispensed words of ease, support and offers to pray for her daughter. No amount of warm thoughts and prayers are going to cure my baby girl she’d retaliate. There was nothing she could do to help little Ivy; their lives now depended on the expertise and care of strangers, what good would prayer do? And then, one grievous morning she found herself in the hospital chapel desperate for a way to disintegrate her despair. Wilma, the cynical shattered mother of a darling blonde hair blue eyed angel, found herself on her knees entreating to God.

Her mournful cries were culled by a gentle hand on her trembling shoulder. She looked up into the kind face of an elderly woman with dull grey hair swept up scrappily in a bun and an ornate cameo brooch on lapel of her nubby coat sweater, “My stars, are you alright, dear?”

Wilma wiped the tears from her cheeks urgently, “I don’t think my baby girl is going to make it. I don’t know what to do, I can’t live without her. I feel so helpless.”

Wilma slipped up onto the wooden pew and tucked a mangled tissue into the sleeve of her plaid shirt.

“I understand your pain, I know how you are feeling,” the old woman empathized and sat down beside her.

Wilma shook her head defensively, “I highly doubt that.”

The old woman sat silent a moment with her eyes closed and drew in a calmative breath, “You’ve come to the right place if you’re looking for something, the chapel. It’s peaceful here, easy to think and pray.”

Wilma glowered, “I don’t know the first thing about praying. I don’t even know who to pray to. I mean, what kind of God would burden such a child with so much pain and agony,” her voice cracked.

There was a long pause before the woman replied again, “Yes, I asked myself that too when my daughter died all those years ago. I was angry. I needed someone to blame.”

Wilma’s heart sunk for reprimanding her, dismissing her compassion so quickly. She respired with a heavy sadness, “What happened to your daughter?”

The old woman looked down at her disfigured hands placed daintily in her skirted lap, “House fire. She was just four.”

Wilma’s breath caught in her throat, “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s been a good many years since I thought about the actual ‘event’. There are times I can’t recall the details at all but it never really leaves me. You see, we’d all gone to bed, tuckered out after a long day of celebrating my husband Earl’s birthday, God rest his soul. There were balloons, a crooked chocolate cake the kids helped to bake, music, and a big feed of corned beef and cabbage, his favorite. I put my son Roy to bed first, he was almost six then and a real rascal to get settled down at night. Once he was tucked in I went upstairs to Dolly’s room. Ah, she was in there jumping up and down so hard on the bed I thought the springs might snap. She was just as rambunctious as her brother, two peas in one pod they were. Eventually I got her to sit down and combed that wily head of hair she had. It was that bad I called her Tangles Tillie more than I called her by her own name. It was in constant knots, and no wonder, the child never sat still. She had ants in her pants all hours of the day. She was something else, gave me a real run for my money. Anyhow, I tucked her in tight with Brown Bear and went back downstairs to clean up from the party. Earl was already sawing logs in his chair in front of the TV, happy as all get out. I quietly put the kitchen back together and finally tucked own tired myself in. I was out like a light from the excitement of the day. It was Earl’s howling up the stairwell that scared me out of a deep sleep in the middle of the night. The house was on fire. You see, Earl stayed asleep downstairs in his chair so he rushed in and gathered up Roy from his bedroom just off of the kitchen. Dolly and I were trapped up on the second floor. The fire gobbled up the stairwell. There was no way up or down, only thing that traveled up were Earl’s tortured screams for us to get out through Dolly’s window onto the roof and then climb down the trellis. So, that’s what I did. Or, I thought I did.”

Wilma winced and tried not to stare at the old woman’s burnt hands, “You thought you did? I don’t understand.”

The old woman turned her bony knees a little more in Wilma’s direction, “I rushed into Dolly’s room and forced the window up as wide as it would go and I gathered her up in her blankets and escaped out like Earls said. As soon as my feet hit the ground there was a sort of explosion that threw us all back and I dropped the blankets I had balled up in my arms that were protecting Dolly only Dolly wasn’t inside at all, just Brown Bear. In all the panic of trying to get us to safety it didn’t register that my arms were empty, I just wanted to get us out of there. They found her little body curled up in a ball inside of her wardrobe hiding from the fire. She’d be in her fifties now, bless her heart. So, when I say I understand how you feel, I truly do.”

The old woman swiped a thin tear from her wrinkled eye and patted Wilma’s hand. Wilma welcomed the human touch, “That’s … it’s just so … how did you make it through?”

The old woman smiled, “It was a Godless time, and I waged war on everyone and everything but mostly God. I could not for the life of me understand how he could let such a thing happen. Earl and I almost divorced it got so bad. I blamed myself for what happened and cursed God for not taking me instead of her. I said this much to Father Matthew, who came calling one late afternoon to see how I was doing and to see when I’d be coming back to church. I told him never. And, then he asked me why I was choosing to honor her memory with anger. That struck a chord. I didn’t want to do that all, I just wanted her back I told him. Father Matthew kindly reminded me that Dolly’s destiny had been fulfilled here on earth and that God’s plan for her had been brief but important.”

Wilma scoffed, “Now, that kind of statement would make me lose my mind.”

The old woman nodded, “In that moment I thought I might too but Father Matthew reminded me that while I was busy forsaking God I was forgetting to ask him for the strength and courage to carry on. Nothing was going to bring Dolly back to us. Earl still needed a wife and Roy still needed a mother. I had to find a way to make peace with it all. I had to summon the mettle from somewhere so that we could survive. I couldn’t do it alone, so finally I asked God for his guidance. And, he listened. He filled me with the will to carry on for my family and for all the memories we had with Dolly. I like to imagine sometimes that she is at His right hand, in the whitest of light, pure and joyful, doing Heavenly work. Authentic prayer is what helped me rise up out of my rut and reclaim my humanness and mend my broken heart. It took a long time to admit that Dolly’s work here on earth was done but I still had more to do. And, in some fateful way, he may have kept me around long enough to see my great grand baby be born so I could sit next to you and impart my wisdom. It might even be Dolly’s doing, God works in mysterious ways, you know.”

Wilma tried to smile but her heavy heart anchored the corners of her lips downward, “Would it be … um… too weird to ask if you’d say a prayer … with me?”

The old woman appeared moved and extended her hand, “Yes of course. There is a sort of prayer that I have since committed to memory. It’s from Ecclesiastes and it helps me to make it through the bad days because I do still have them. Are you ready, dear?”

Wilma offered a quick nod and accepted the old woman’s open palm, “Ready.”

The old woman began, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under Heaven, a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up. Dear Lord, please give this mother and child the strength and courage to endure whatever is before them. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

Wilma sobbed uncontrollably, “I am so ashamed to admit this but if I’d known I was going to lose her I wouldn’t have had her. I’m not strong enough to do this. But then at the same time, despite all of the agony, I’d go through this a thousand times over because I have never loved anyone or anything so much. I knew when Ivy’s complexion grew pale and she lost her appetite and was too tired to play hopscotch, and this kid loves hopscotch, something was really wrong. That was six months ago. We’ve been in and out of here so many times she’s more at home here than in our own. This time only one of us will be leaving and it won’t be my baby girl. I’m terrified.”

The old woman rubbed Wilma’s shoulder tenderly, “There is nothing harder in this world than losing a child, nothing. My heart goes out to you because the living hell before you will be insufferable, I couldn’t candy coat that truth for you no matter how much I’d like to. You’ll wish some days you had died right along with her. It may not be evident to you right now what Ivy’s purpose is here on earth but I am certain it is meant for good. I am confident that Dolly allowed our paths to cross today. And, if you ever need someone to talk to, I can be that person. I’m an old woman. I’m alone all the time. I knit and watch my soaps now mostly so it’d be no bother.”

Wilma chuckled, “That’d be nice, thank you. I’m Wilma by the way,” she fished her tissue from the cuff of her sleeve and dabbed her nose.

“And I’m Freya. I’m so happy to meet you, dear,” she replied pleased with herself and handed Wilma her phone number written down in perfect cursive on a piece of paper from her tiny clasped purse that sat beside her on the pew.

Wilma accepted the note and asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Jessica Tandy?”

Freya erupted in a crackling belly laugh, “I’ve been the butt of a good many ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ jokes in my day.”

In propinquity,

Nic