Poised at the keyboard after writing for years, I was buried under an avalanche hill. It toppled from some great height of which I had quite underestimated. Out of the fray—a few days later—a new character showed up and saved the day: a U.S. postal carrier. On his way to his last stop—a curbside collection box—he pulled up beside my hill in a DJ-5 mail jeep and loaned me a shovel. With it, I wrote a rip-roaring two pages to begin my novel’s epilogue. And then?—I was really in trouble.
How do you decorate the armature of a story? That is the question. And how intently do you listen for where it wants to go?
An immeasurable amount of time back, before I wrote the last three ‘numbered’ chapters, a revelation flooded my brain. It was a new ending that wasn’t there before. Not in my outline. Not even close to my outline. You know, like, a bridge too far? The idea took me through an agonizing week and a half before my resolute rejection of it. Still, something was right about how it stirred the fiery cauldron. I needed to seriously consider it, as a way to break free from my matter-of course.
I was nudged into a monolithic overreach that I call my Sixth Sense moment. Had I incorporated the physical actuality of it, I would’ve blown up the whole story. However, it was surprisingly helpful as it knocked me forty-five degrees off course—into the black hole of my imagination.
Throughout the labyrinthine detours, over-embellishments, about-faces, pot holes, and cracked fillings, I discovered something more than just the ending. I can’t really explain it—don’t even think it could ever happen again. I climbed the mountain and reached the momentous afterglow of completing my last chapter—sixty-three. And then?—that avalanche I mentioned earlier: the epilogue. It started with my erroneous assumptions about what would fill the early pages. I gave it a shot, and realized I was—once again—trying to control the narrative.
It is impossible to control the narrative! No part of this story has ever reacted favorably to my pigeon-holing—especially for convenience’s sake. Thus, why my research is extensive, and why I wrote my previous blog post on finding The Final Last Word.
In June of 2022, I scribbled this on an envelope:
Questions loom. Will I be able to pay off the debt I racked up in fifty-nine chapters totaling 540 pages? Am I up to the task?
Well, it took four more chapters and eight more months before I’d even reach the epilogue. And now—well—here I am, ten pages in—at 604.
Based on my track record for blog frequency, this will surely be my last blog post before finishing the novel, the last chronicling of my progress in real time, and a get-well card to my future readers who were willing to track a 600-page novel.
There’ll be no more trudging back to reconstitute soaring revelations or frequent dives for cover. This is it. No rectifying, no making up for all the ghost posts that never reached quintessential windups. It is what it is. I deleted 2200 words of blogwash and gave myself a break. THE END—in real time.
I have figured out how to fiber-optically plug my subconscious into the world wide web. Consciously.
In my search for meaning, I scour internet dictionaries, thesauruses, idiom finders, and rhyming zones to exhume long-forgotten words crypted inside my subconscious mind: compartmentalized rooms divided by stacks of old books brimming with life experience and emotions, all inventoried in hefty card catalogs scattered about the main floor.
And then there’s the forbidden zone, where implicit instructions were given—by me earlier in my life—during times of greatest pain: Hide this, andnever let me go near it again. Sometimes, the thing we want to hide from the most is love. If I can locate this forbidden zone, words might reveal themselves, glitter inside encapsulated treasure troves, and help me get down to being a good writer.
Why embark on such an intensive task? Because one memory can lead to layers of insight, and one word can make all the difference.
This offshoot post sprouts from a hopefully-soon-to-be-published: Home Stretch: Birth of a New Ending. Since I’m working on the last chapter of my novel right now, I’m trying to keep up with my sometimes-stalled, sometimes-accelerated advancement. But the blog post in question—which I started way back in August—had gotten way too comprehensive. In the contractions of giving birth to a revelation, I’d gone crazy—even more than usual. Ideas cut loose and crossed synapses, travelling along sensory neurons to my fingertips, prodding them to type. In the middle of the frenzy, I started to write about my pursuit of the final last word. It dawned on me that this search was like anticipating the toy surprise inside a Cracker Jack box—buried in a haystack of caramel-coated, popped corn and peanuts.
To avoid yet another blog post pouring into a tangential spillover, I only report on this singular, compulsive treasure hunt for a word that wouldn’t have surfaced without my subconscious igniting a little spark—the clue that steers me in a general direction toward a possible epiphany. In the dark, I suit up for the journey, and the signal light appears as I plug in my subconscious. Without that initial spark, the road ahead would otherwise be an ill-fated, exhaustive, and unfruitful rumination leading to excessive burn-out.
It was late September. I’d received some professional notes—which I paid for—on my novel’s first 5000 words, courtesy of Coverfly analyst #CCB8D. Unsurprisingly, chapter five got the most attention. In truth, the chapter had been—maybe not my biggest, but—a challenge that I especially avoided and was forced to revisit more than once as it begged for an overhaul. Chapter five is the first detour off my main storyline, and introduces a Montana otherworld—not an overlay of a past or future, but merely an occupation of a different space of the now.
Crafting a chapter to be a roadmap into the unknown is a delicate operation. It requires leaving breadcrumbs for the reader—but not too many. I’d left too many. Fifty-seven chapters later I had to face the music. So I decided to pause the turtle race to the finish line and do the repair work. If a publisher can’t get past this, no sense in the rest of it mattering. And thus, chapter sixty-one was moved to the back burner.
Okay. The word in question was needed for a particular line of thought for one of two unearthly women characters who reside in this Montana otherworld. Emma, whose POV was narrating the mystical goings-on, was once a famous—thought-to-have-died-years-earlier—movie star who’d been a closeted reader of books in her other life. Being smart wasn’t sexy in the 1950s.
I went looking for the adjective to complete Emma’s observance of her friend as they rummage through an old, mahogany trunk that occasionally produces items from their former lives. This time they are in a desperate search for an object that could be teleported through the ether to the main character—a soul-wounded Vietnam Veteran—who needs saving from himself. In the writing of the sentence, I heard the adjective rhythmically in my head as three syllables, already knowing what I needed essence-wise.
And here’s the little spark my subconscious gave me—don’t ask me how: the word starts with the letters l-u-c. Did you know that you can search for a word on the internet like that? It’s brilliant! All I did was type into google: words that begin with luc. I somehow understood: luc rode tandem with the word lucid, only it contained more light. (You see how my brain works.)
Point Dume, Malibu, California
The hunting expedition across the cyber terrain first brought me to the word luculent, which I thought had to be it. But it was wrong for two reasons: 1) the “c” didn’t have the “s” sound, which is how I heard it fuzzily in my head; and 2) it still didn’t have the light I was looking for. Luculent was lucid—clear—but with no inference of light. What is that damn word? I went back again, and I found it. Not three syllables like I’d thought—the subconscious is also a trickster—but four.
Luciferous was the word. It had the soft “c” and the light, and it was lodged there in my subconscious but couldn’t be brought through the thick veil of my limited conscious perception. I may have never used the word before, but my subconscious had read/heard it somewhere. And Emma, my Einstein-loving-closeted-book-reading movie star definitely had experience with it. She used it to describe her friend’s aha moment: Beth giggled, her face showing a mixture of fright and luciferous awe.
Whatever one might think of the word, it is the word that fits Emma’s thought. The word also gave me something extra: Lucifer. Before lucifer became a proper name for Satan in a grindingly rough translation, it originally meant “light-bringing.” I discovered in Adam Aleksic’s The Etymology Nerd blog that lucifer was also defined as “morning star” or “light on the horizon”—which could mean, in one sense, an aha moment. Right? And guess what, I have a morning star rising at the very get-go of chapter five. So YEAH, in a chapter that had thrown me for a loop, there’s this little inspired word that could possibly keep future readers engrossed in the fantastical luminous world of these two women characters. Like, who are they really?
Well, it didn’t engross everyone. At the completion of my revision, I was lighted up, triumphant. I submitted chapter five to my writers critique group, and the word got side-whacked, one of the women flat-out calling it ostentatious. Ouch! Humorously speaking, the word ostentatious is one of those words that—by its own self-image, its audible voice and disruptive flow—clearly defines itself better than a lot of words out there. Kinda like the way namby pamby does. I prefer to think of luciferous as luxurious, or—even better—the light on the horizon.
Post-notes:
Sometimes I look for a word by figuring out its least-ambiguous opposite, and then follow the path in reverse by looking at that contrary word’s antonyms. Can you dig it?
Sometimes a word is just wrong: in its lack of flow with the sentence, in its commonplace overuse, or in its visual and audible pretense and/or presentation in general. I try not to overthink it as I wend through my elaborate word searches. But, because I’ve gotten particularly brilliant at it, words are getting easier to recognize in all the noise.
My toughest nut to crack is when I look for a word that resides somewhere in the between of two other words, which are often incomparable. Sometimes, it just isn’t there. When there are no words, as a writer, I just have to do the best I can to unpack the stuff streaming into my head via the vast portal of my imagination. I try to give the reader as much accuracy as possible without beating them over the head with it. Being given a story is a tremendous gift, and a great responsibility. It has been my honor to write this epic novel that soon will find its conclusion.
The final last word is the word that goes to the printer when your novel is published. Make it a good one. And have a luciferous day.
During the first year of the pandemic, I took three weeks off from my novel to craft a 1600-word story for an up-and-coming anthology: Voices of Magic. Two years later and eight days ago—March 23, 2022—the book was officially launched on Amazon.
It was one thing to read my story over and over again in a word document on a laptop screen—during COVID—making edits until I ran out. And quite another to see the words in print, and then watch the anthology take a leap in the categories of New Age Channeling and Personal Transformation Self-Help. I am proud to be a contributing author for this enchanted collection of personal stories of magic.
My story “Time Passages” weaves in and out of timelines like my novel has for 500+ pages, but only for about as long as half a chapter. A friend and fellow writer told me that my story read like a condensed novel. That’s about how it felt, writing it, the hop-skipping timeline that covered a lot of territory. Thus, why I gave it the title I did—no other way to put it.
I am including the first paragraph of “Time Passages” below, to demonstrate my point:
An atmospheric hush rolled in around the jewelry counter, disguised in feminine chatter freewheeling over clearance tables. On the far side where he stood, the air came alive, like how it does before a thunderstorm, deceptively still. I hadn’t noticed his presence, at least not by my usual measuring sticks—my five senses—the real stuff of my existence, like being inside my body with its all-too-familiar cushiness since the pregnancy. Here on the first floor of Columbus, Ohio’s preeminent downtown department store, a glimmer of light was about to arrive at the end of a very long dark tunnel, wherein dwelt the interminable quagmire (i.q.) that followed high school graduation and delayed my first day of college by two—and one-quarter—years.
This is not my first foray into authorship. It began with a mere six words back in 2008. A contest was issued, and thousands of concise life stories poured into Smith Magazine for its debut six-word anthology, Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs from Writers Famous & Obscure. I was over the moon when I found out my tiny memoir had been selected for the publication. In no time at all, the book became a New York Times Bestseller.
Perhaps one day I’ll go from obscure to famous, and up the ante on those six words. 🙂
Two years following that publication, I won a flash fiction contest that had very specific criteria. My 101-word story “Tarragon” was published in an issuu chapbook online, entitled Dog Days of Summer: Not From Here Are You? The funny thing about this little fictional story is—and I only connected the dots about this recently—it relates storywise tp my just-published memoir/nonfiction in Voices of Magic.
The criteria for the flash fiction submissions were: 1) The story had to be exactly one hundred and one words (not including the title); 2) it had to contain both words heat and summer. And that’s all I have to say about that.
I needed several days to nourish and shape the narrative. During which I had in-body experiences.
The debate with myself—over whether to write the scene full-blown or not—didn’t take long. I wouldn’t even call it a debate, to tell you the truth. The story needed a candid encounter, and so did my characters, and—dare I say?—so does the reader. I anticipated the sexy landing a few chapters back, so I started leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.
Once the scene finally arrived—in chapter fifty-one—if I hadn’t given it the detail it craved—and deserved—the ensuing unravel of the novel’s climax (pardon the pun) would’ve seemed too far off. How I calculated this, I couldn’t exactly tell you. It’s one of those beyond-logic things that happens—as implied by coyotescribe’s blog logline.
For a while I’d been worried, because the story kept pushing farther out, on a high-hanging limb. However, any drag on forward motion was not boring. At least not to me. This novel has grabbed me by the orbs and taken me on a magic carpet ride—with the notable exceptions of periodic freak-outs, plummets into sinkholes, and hard-hitting bouts of self-doubt… and worst of all, my erroneous thinking that I know better how to write the story than my characters.
I’ve experienced a lot of background noise, especially after exceeding 110,000 words. While hammering away and racking up a bodacious word count, I thought if I wrote faster, I’d have less words to contend with. The opposite is actually true. But—finally—the sex scene was on the page, and the turning of the story opened a straight shot to The End—with maybe only four more chapters to write, and maybe two to three more mystical bombs going off.
Note here: I just started writing Chapter Fifty-Four, and maybe I was a bit premature in thinking the tail-end narrative would aim itself like an arrow. The past three chapters were straighter, but also took a detour. On this Christmas day—2021—The End is near.
It wasn’t sexual tension that turned a detailed erotic encounter into a necessity—well, maybe in part—but more correctly, it was resistance-to-love tension. My main character is a wounded Vietnam Veteran. The first chapter begins ten years after his return from the war. It would take him time to trust love. What also needed to play out in the narrative was the his-and-her backstory: 1962 – when John and Cindy knew each other for seven days, at 12 and 9 years old.
Their childhood adventure is dispersed throughout the current story timeline—a map that unfolds their past friendship, and details the abrupt departure from it. Sixteen years later, they need to acclimate, not only to the circumstances by which they find themselves together again—a mystical materialization of Cindy’s old photos from her long lost camera, returned on a light beam through the ether into their world—but to come to terms with each other as adults. As sexual beings. All of that takes time and a few chapters. It’s one of the many things which make this story a swirling roadmap, only partially tethered to space-time.
The sex scene takes place in the middle of night—not for the writer—but for her characters. The writer sits at her computer sipping a cup of white tea with honey and goat milk, midmorning, her usual writing-start-time.
Tysa at the computer writing.
The writer sees everything and has to decide which details are enough, or too much. I had to do it in a way that felt like I wasn’t invading my characters’ privacy. But I also couldn’t just stay on other side of a closed door. Of course, I had to know everything, and be as involved in the intimacy as they were.
After I did a final edit of the chapter, I searched online for some advice about writing sex scenes, and stumbled onto a good article posted on the NY Book Editors site, entitled, “Make It Sexy: How to Write Sex Scenes.”
It seems I’d inadvertently checked all but one box in their list of dos & don’ts, plus one they didn’t mention, which to me underscores the main reason why or why not: Does the sex scene provide an important component in character development? Here is my checklist:
Having sex is a move my characters would actually make, they needed to make. And I did not force the issue.
The scene definitely catapults the story forward.
My motivation was not to disappoint the reader—by not including (or including) the scene. Though, I do think about giving the reader the best ingredients to bake their cake and eat it too.
My characters are in their thoughts many times throughout the novel, but during the sex scene—written in my main character’s POV—he’s not thinking much.
Yes, I think this scene is beautiful and soulful. A memory begins it, and a poem is read by its author, just as he’d written it to her—in her diary—in 1962 when he was a boy. When he finishes reading it out loud, the scene begins: The air hung still as John closed the diary, resting it between his palms—the echo of his words swallowed in silence.
I was gutsy, not cutesy, with my word choices. Certain words are best left to the dime romances, like bulge or member.
This was a suggestion, but I didn’t study other sex scenes—either in R-rated movies or novels—other than what was in my memory. This scene was the experience of my two main characters. So, my imagination bridged whatever gap I might’ve widened without research.
No-No-No—I did not write the scene in public. The only thing I do as a writer in public is listen, and on occasion get an idea that will be developed—yes, that’s right—in the solitude of my writing space.
Editing furiously is like my middle name, and it wasn’t any different during the writing of my sex scene.
When I impose my will on my characters, it doesn’t go well in my writing. When I let them impose their will on me, it’s one revelation after another.
Is it bad that I labor over sentences before I can move on in my writing? I don’t think so. My boundary dweller is the poet, not the painter. The painter pours out words. I labor. It has to sound right. Because, for me, somewhere in the midst of the quagmire, I find the flow and discover little gems, sometimes unbeknownst to me and only to my characters. These little gems are setups (or upsets), and happen through the efficiency of magic. And I desire to make them happen in no less than once every couple of paragraphs—gems that fuel mystery, or gems that are just plain awe-striking. Maybe this is why it has taken me over ten years to write twenty-eight chapters. But, there is light at the end of the tunnel: in my novel, and in my life.
I will write about the four boundary dwellers later. I just had to post this, along with a very cool photo I took back in 2004, when the idea for my novel was beginning to brew, and years of research initiated.
p.s. Be sure to read my previous essay about navigating self-doubt… … … if you’d like.
Self-doubt is essential to any creative process. Every accomplished artist experiences it, as does anyone who dares to chart a new course in their life, in any form. It takes courage, because when you create art, or create realities, you enter the unknown. If the process of creation were seven steps, self-doubt would be number four, the most determined. If you cannot move through self-doubt, you won’t be able to proceed to the last three steps, and you’ll likely start over again and again, or just give up. Conversely, if you try to skip over that step, you will be hard-pressed to reach the goal line without massive struggle, or find fulfillment even if you do manage to get there.
Humorous but revelatory look at the creative process
Here are three understandings to help you navigate your self-doubt:
1st understanding: Self-doubt is not self-punishment or self-flagellation (humorous diagram aside). This is an important distinction. If you’re beating yourself up and calling it self-doubt, know that this is self-destructive behavior, and at best, fake humility. Pride and humility need to be in balance. Always move toward being your own best friend. Engage in the practice of loving self, which includes forgiving yourself when you screw up. Without self-forgiveness, you’ll repeat your mistakes and won’t change.
2nd understanding: There are layers to responsibility in the creation of anything new in your life. The “rah-rah—it’s all good” or “it’s all shit” mantras will disconnect you from your soul and spirit. Don’t let the light blind you to the presence of self-doubt, or the dark keep you mired in it. Always seek to balance between the light (spirit) and the substance (soul).
3rd understanding: Creativity waxes and wanes, and sometimes it can get lost, which can trigger heavy doses of self-doubt. When this happens, you need to push in the clutch and change it up. Pause is essential to retrieve lost creativity. If you’re too busy to pause, that’s when you need it the most. Time is an illusion. It does not have to be your slave master. Use meditation to step out of space-time. Take your self-doubt into your meditation, ask for help in lifting it. Controlling it doesn’t work. Trying to be perfect absolutely doesn’t work. Perfection is brittle and static, and leaves no room for creativity.
A final caveat—your negative ego:
Your negative ego can have a field day with your self-doubt. One thing you can count on: it always lies. So, don’t give it to your ego. Whether you acknowledge your self-doubt, or ignore it, one of the most destructive games your negative ego will play is delusions of grandeur, and delusions of insignificance. Both are a lie, and both will take you down. Your positive ego is supposed to just deliver information from your physical reality. But we, somewhere in our growing up years, shamed it into taking over interpretation of our reality. Make sure you are the one in charge. Harness your negative ego and give it a back seat.
p.s. Do you think I had any self-doubt in the writing of this post? You bet!
Day 78. Throughout this pandemic—adding to it our current crisis, the murder of a black man by a smug-faced white policeman, followed by riots and curfews that suppress peaceful protests (which is the right of every American citizen), disrupted by opportunistic thugs—and a president who has provoked violence and hatred, who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself, I’ve been doing what I can on a personal level to heal, to work magic with crystals, to pray and meditate, help my clients navigate their pain, owning my own crap—my rage, my entitlement–accepting and forgiving.
And every day, during this whole shitstorm—me not sleeping, too much histamine in my system, breakouts of eczema, 100,00+ people dying, my cat in a health crisis, waking up at noon, up all night, house clothes worn out, an album release on hold because it just costs too much, helicopters overhead, sirens passing by—every day…Every day I ask myself the same question: “What can I do?” And the voices of my soul and higher self always reply with the same answer: “Work on your novel.”
Today, with the curfew now set at 5pm in Los Angeles, I stayed home and completed Chapter Twenty-Eight. The boys from Vietnam made me cry—it’s a pivotal moment in my novel, which is a healing journey through the crosswinds of space-time, and a story I can’t get enough of. I love my characters. They are real. And they love me back by revealing who they are. If I’m strong enough to listen, to get out of the way, they tell me how to mine their story. Despite the unending research required to write a character that is not only a Vietnam vet, but also half Ojibwe Indian, during a time (1978) when Americans had pretty much discarded the horrors of that war and moved on to other things, I feel up to the task. The piecing together of the last part of the novel during this pandemic is what I do to help, a way I can love my country.
Interestingly enough, much of the story takes place in southern Minnesota, including references to the VA Hospital in Minneapolis. The photo I’m posting is where an important scene takes place in Chapter Twenty-Eight, near Cannon Falls, MN. To find out a little more about my novel, you can visit wildcoyotes.com/Totality.html
Posted in Working magic on October 19, 2019 by coyotescribe
All week I’ve been working to accept seven truths (responsibilities) as part of a seven-day process (taken from the Lazaris Material). Each day I accept and then receive one of the seven responsibilities of being a Magician. Each day I take one truth and make it mine. But Day 6 kicked my ass, and sent me headlong into a wall of resistance. And it was a little grasshopper that helped me jump over the wall.
Day 1’s responsibility was to accept that I am powerful and strong enough to be gentle and vulnerable. In many ways I’ve been living that truth, especially in my work as an intuitive counselor and medium.(www.empathicmedium.com). So, not a lot of resistance, just letting it sink deeper.
The second responsibility (Day 2) has to do with passion and compassion, and being empathic without being swallowed up in pity or sympathy. That truth was also an easier one to accept. I have come to understand that pity and sympathy have a very short shelf life before they can turn into feelings of “better than.” (“I feel so sorry for them, look at that reality they created.”) Yes, but their pain is in your reality, too. You are witness. How present with their pain do you want to be? What energy do you want to contribute?
Day 3 was a little more challenging. The responsibility to accept was: that I am flexible and fluid enough to transmute and transform anything I want, whether changing a reality I have already created into a more positive one, or changing a reality that has not yet been born into something I want. As I typed these words I felt some resistance, triggered by the cogent messages in childhood around suffering and self sacrifice as a mark of love. If you do things for yourself, you are being selfish, and not a true servant of God.
That’s a whole other subject that I will simply condense into a one sentence response, because the resistance to this truth has permeated my spiritual growth. The measure of our self love is the measure of how much love we are able to give, and in turn, receive.
Day 4 responsibility was an easier challenge to accept, perhaps because the desire of it has been a theme in my life: I accept that it is important to always seek freedom and self determination. It’s about reaching for your human dignity, your character, vision and vitality, because that’s where you’ll find that freedom and self determination, that self reliance. I love this truth.
Day 5 responsibility: To accept that I am humble enough to transcend anything I want. It’s based on the humility that just because something has been, does not mean it will be again. It can always change, whether it has been consisitently good, or not good. With humility you approach each situation with an openness and responsibility.
Which brings me to Day 6, and the little grasshopper that waited for me on my recently purchased Volkswagen Jetta SportWagen dieselgate car. I was in a hurry, heading back to the bookstore where I give readings part-time. I had signed out early and come home after a very frustrating day, knowing I needed to process some not-so nicety-nice feelings, to relieve the pressure of my outrage around some issues at the store.
You might assume that Day 6’s acceptance would be one of grave responsibility, but it’s the brightest truth of the seven, and probably the reason why it gave me the most resistance. I needed to accept that I can create light, hope, dreams, visions, and the opportunity and means to allow them to be, that I do already love enough to dream, and that I’ve got enough courage to let those dreams come true. I can inspire and uplift, and create the means to allow that light, hope, dreams and vision to manifest. “There is never a darkness that doesn’t also have light, for it is light that defines the boundary of darkness.” —Lazaris
I really need to let it in that I never dream a dream without also creating the opportunity and means to allow that dream to come true. This is how the grasshopper helped me.
Grasshopper medicine is about aspiration, and taking a leap of faith. Aspiration is part of spirit, which is filled with the breath of life, and with the inspiration (and aspiration) to live that life elegantly and gloriously. In other words, to live that life in alignment with your Higher Self and Soul. Within spirit is also a dynamic aliveness and compassion that can work miracles, and a vibrancy and vitality that can awaken destiny. And there is a responsibility that can generate breath-catching change.
According to trustedpsychicmediums.com “the grasshopper spirit animal chooses those who want to move ahead in life with their innovative thinking and progressive approach. When you are inspired by the grasshopper totem, jump forward and get past whatever is trying to keep you or hold you back.”
In the grasshopper symbolism there is an ongoing dance of balance between having your feet on the ground and having your thoughts in flights of dreams, your head in the clouds. Grasshopper encourages you to dream and to put your dreams into action.
Words connected to grasshopper medicine: Dream World, Creative Manifestation, Balance, Freedom, Song, Sun, Wind, Earth, Discipline.
I need to be more courageous, and take that leap of faith, knowing I can create that light, hope, dream and vision. And to realize I can create the means to allow those dreams and visions to manifest. I will work on my limited beliefs around it, ask my subconscious to help me reprogram where, out of an old sense of safety, I might’ve instructed it not to open that door. Because I want to aspire, and inspire more dreams—for me, for those I love, and for the world.
Musician, songwriter, writer of screenplays, short stories, a first novel in progress. Always been sensitive to departed spirits; makes for good storytelling.
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