ORIGINAL BLISS

For the Love of the Game

Spent yesterday evening with my sister and neice and nephew. I'm not a baseball fan, but it was a treat watching my nephew Chance play.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Keelyn was there, too. She is going through the "TWO" stage. Everything is "No." But I was able to capture a couple of shots without her really knowing.

 

On a personal note, I have been through more upheavals the past couple of months: a big move, telationship trials, and professional stress.  I lost some things that were really important to me...mostly me. I am going to take some time to heal through art amd will be posting more frequently. 

And I am also going to get back to writing that next novel.

I know, you'll believe it when you see it. :)

Until next time,

Namaste.

Shannan

Chicken Soup for the Cynic's Soles

There is nothing like a walk in the rain; the hushed whisper of the showers through the leaves, the sweet taste of droplets on your tongue, having the sidewalks and the park all to yourself.

As I strolled the rolling walkways of my neighborhood park, I happened upon an old, oak tree. The recent storms had stripped it of most its leaves and the ground was littered with acorns.

Reminded of a story, I stopped to contemplate them.

I am sure it was Jack Canfield who first exposed me to the story, back when Chicken Soup for the Soul first came out. That was before there was a Chicken Soup for Teens, Chicken Soup for African Americans, Chicken Soup for the Canadian, Chicken Soup for the American Idol, Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover, Dog Lover, NASCAR Lover, Beach Lover, or Your Lover's Lover... (these exist)...

...way back before they started making Chicken Soup for the Soul Chicken Noodle Soup. (uh. yeah. no lie. PROOF HERE! )

Way, way back...before Chicken Soup made you puke.

He talked about how within every acorn lies the potential to be the fully realized oak tree. 

He was making a point, that within each of us there is the potential to realize our greatness, our best self.

Very inspiring stuff.

Until I looked down at them on the ground in various states of smushed and felt the hard slap of reality in my face.

Sure, within every acorn there lies the POTENTIAL... but not every acorn becomes a tree. Not very many even become a sprout. The chances of an acorn elevating itself out of smushed is less then 1 in 10,000. (gotta love Google.)

The only other opportunity for the acorn to become something of itself is by being picked up by some passing creature and eaten. That lucky acorn gets to become squirrel shit.

Jack Canfield did not convey all this in his story. Apparently, squirrel shit does not make good Chicken Soup.

It was fucking depressing looking down at the wet dirt at all that wasted potential. I couldn't help but identify with these pathetic useless seeds and worry that I, too, am wasting mine.

Then I realized...

I am not an acorn.

I am a human. And human potential is unlimited. The only thing that inhibits our potential is our inability to see and believe in the infinite possibilities within ourselves.

I decided that these acorns today were not destined to become squirrel shit and I picked them up off the ground, carried them home, placed them in a bowl on my mantel to remind me: 

 

neither am I.

Namaste,

Shannan

 

Photos taken on iTouch with Hipstamatic camera app

Holy Days

The month of November was not good to my family in so many ways. Besides the broken sewer line displacing my family the entire month, we also lost my stepfather to an unforeseen illness. 

It has been an exercise in patience and a lesson in grief, love, and gratitude.

I wish I could say I was the picture of serenity during this trying time, that I didn't lose it, not once, but unfortunately, the stress did get the better of me a few times. 

But unlike other stressful times of my recent past, my break downs were minimal in occurence, duration and intensity. Several blessings helped me hold it together.

My family. The death of my dad brought us together, not without drama (after all, we are Lyons women), but together just the same. Sharing stories of our childhood was amusing and comforting and getting to watch my young nieces and nephews play and listen to them laugh was a reminder that life is short and precious.

 

 

 

 

 

I spent time looking out at various landscapes, finding beauty not only in the obvious places, but when I changed my perspective in unusual places as well.

 

 

 

 

I am feeling reconnected with my creativity again. 

Last but not least, I am not the same woman I was a year ago. I am stronger and wiser. I have a better support system and have surrounded myself with more loving and open people.

So in the midst of the crazy that will forever be called November 2012, I was actually happier than I would have ever imagined possible.

Namaste,

Shannan

 

Photo credit: Dan Zampa & Shannan Sinclair 

Evolution

I have been so stagnant lately. Sitting around on my ass waiting for something to happen, for something to be brought to me, for inspiration.

What that means is, I have been sitting around in my skivvies watching episodes of 'Breaking Bad' back to back and not being what I call "creatively productive."

I have forced myself to sit down and write my next novel, Time Walker, but that ends up being sitting down and staring at the words I have already written, maybe moving them around a little, until I give up and go back to watching 'Breaking Bad'.

This is extremely frustrating for me because I have a complete story all laid out in my head, but for some reason I am having a hard time telling it right now.

I could force it—figuratively stick my finger down my throat and vomit Time Walker out—but sorry, that is no fun for me. And the truth of it is, if it doesn't turn me on, I ain't doin' it.

As I was wrestling with my artistic angst one day, it occurred to me, the Creative cannot be forced to manifest. It happens naturally, in its own sweet time; not like a big bang where it all appears in a perfect instant, but in the slow drip of evolution.

My soul has been telling my ego to back the fuck off and give her some space. Sure, laying on the couch for the complete second season of a kickass television show may look like I am wasting time, or it could be I am incubating, or learning how to tell an even more amazing story from it.

Time Walker will get written. It is all there.

In the meantime, I will find ways that allow the Creative to just happen, whether it is through writing, journaling, photography, or finger painting.

Namaste,

Shannan

Knock knock...

 

 

I feel the mischievous, disruptive, but ultimately positive forces of change flitting 'round my space.

But I don't know what form they are planning to take.

And that scares the crap out of me.

In dynamic times and difficult situations it is human nature to react by reaching for and clinging to the nearest thing that can buoy us through the rough waters change brings.

We latch onto people and resort to partaking in comforting but unhealthy behaviors. We long to take the low road and lash out--tempted to scream, kick, and resist.

Rarely, do we respond to change in a way that is good for ourselves.

Well, I feel you coming, Change. I see you lurking out there on the horizon. But this time I will be clinging to what is good and superior within myself; to truth, acceptance, and independence.

Namaste,

Shannan

Photo credit: Dan Zampa

Run, run, run runaway...

 

 

When the road gets rough, the tough hit the road.

 

 

That's my story and I am sticking to it.

 

 

I've been told it is a bad habit: that when shit goes down, I bail. But the way I look at it, sometimes sticking around only makes things worse. 

 

 

So, yeah, the other day, I started acting a fool. It's fucking embarrassing. Really. But because you all have come to expect "raw honesty" from me, I'm gonna tell you how lame I was.

 

 

But you can't laugh.

 

 

Promise?

 

 

I started making a big deal about something that in the scope of love and life, is about the size of flea shit.

 

Got myself all in a tizzy over it; butthurt and pouty--knotted and unhinged.

 

And it was all over something on Facebook.

 

I told you.

 

Stop fucking laughing.

 

You all have done it. Don't judge.

 

K. Maybe you haven't.

 

So, I almost fuck up something really great in my life over social media, and in my complete and utter shame, I jumped in my car and headed for the hills.

 

If I slip out the back and take leave for a little while my head has a miraculous way of popping back out of my ass.

 

Thankfully, it did.

 

I am seeing and thinking and acting like a mature adult again. 

 

For today.

 

Right this minute.

 

Give me a second though, the mood could swing.

 

Namaste,

Shannan

 

 

...Any Way I Can.

Reading: Secret History of the World by Mark Booth

Listening: Zen Garden, OK Go, Ed Sheeran, not an Airplane

Eating: Mediterranean Chicken and Orzo microwave dinner from Target 

ON MY MIND: Getting a massage, working out, blogging on Original Bliss again, finding my Muse again (I lost him somewhere...he was feeling neglected and ran off), and....

LOVE.

It had become a bad word, love...the worst four-letter word EVER. When 'fuck' has more appeal, you know you have a serious problem.

But, unfortunately, it really had become that way, and for so long I haven't thought I would find my way out of that mindset...or heartset, rather.

By nature I am a lover. Put the balls-to-the-wall attitude and risque mouth aside, I am one who always moves to seek and find and give love in the world. It is the bottom line for me, of singular importance. If love is off, nothing else fits. When love is right, everything falls into place.

Every day I try to find a way to be an expression of love in the world, with my children, with my friends, with the strangers I meet, with nature, and when I have one, with my lover. At the end of the day, the final question I ask myself is: "Did I love well today?"

If, in some way, I did not, then I try to remedy the situation. I apologize as soon as possible. "I'm sorry" is one of the best expressions of love~right after "I love you."

But what happens when another has hurt you, has made you feel unloved and uncared for? What then?

See...that is the kicker...right in the jimmy.

It is especially bad when the unloving act(s) are harsh: abandonment, dishonesty, unfaithfulness, physical harm, emotional abuse...those create wounds that take so much time to heal. And sometimes they never really do. 

Unhealed wounds ooze bitterness. You know those people. We all have them in our lives; hateful, bitter and hard, the evidence of the unloved.

See, I was really proud of myself. I had overcome my totally devastated heart...sewn her right back up with some leftover thread I found around here and ventured back out in the world. She was a scraggly-ass mess, though. Her rage was still too present in every encounter.

So I pulled back, gave her a little time to put a scab on. Then I put a little cover up on 'er and hit the bars with her again.

To be honest, I was really only looking for the three-letter "f" word (fun), hopefully with a little four-letter "f" word on the side.

That worked out a lot better. I found them both! In one guy!!!! It was great!!!! I was smiling again. The fancy was tickled.

But then...after a time...the 8-letter "f" word came along.

Feelings.

That wasn't supposed to happen.

And that is when scabby-ass heart didn't hold up so well. She got a little weird. Well, in my case weird is normal...so she got a little weirder than usual.

See, half-healed wounds are not much better. They weep mistrust and keep the heart tight. The half-healed heart, while not spewing hate, still cannot create real love in the world, let alone with a partner. Every thing it touches with its love-attempts is tainted; with fear and with negative expectations.

So the scabs started to itch and scabby-ass heart started to scratch. She became afraid. She wants to pull. She wants to push.

She wants to hide herself away again until the scar tissue takes. "It would be for the best," she says. "So no one gets hurt."

But then she doesn't. She wants to move into it. "He has a scabby-ass heart, too," she says. "You both are kinda fucked up."

"If you just roll with it, and are honest, it will be what it is. And that will be fine."

So that is really where we are today, me and my scabby-ass heart.

If you've ever been there, holla.

Namaste,

Shannan

Driven to Distraction

I have been in denial the past few months. But more than one dear friend has mentioned it to me recently and I had to finally own up to the fact. I have been completely distracted.

Not a whole lot of writing for book 2 has been getting done. It's plotted, and three chapters are complete, but I have not been consistant with my daily writing as I should be. There is a lot of guilt and pressure associated with failing to meet my daily goals. And to avoid feeling bad about it, I avoid writing some more.

It all started when I published Dream Walker. After being cooped up in the corner alone for over a year, the thrill of getting out there, the rush of marketing and promoting the book, was invigorating. Ahhh... PEOPLE again.

Then came my birthday, and the Spring. The sunshine, the opportunities to hit the road, to see new landscapes, and to meet MORE people, was too tempting. And I embraced it. 

The final distraction came in the form of one person in particular. In the midst of meeting all these interesting, wonderful and inspiring people, one stood out. And it caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting it at all. But again, I went with it, got caught up in the flow of what the Universe had brought into my life. I took advantage a hike at the river, a concert road trip, saving kittens and the general hanging out.

In the back of my mind I questioned whether it is good for me -- if I am not meeting my goals -- if I am feeling sidetracked.

This morning, I was lounging in the bath contemplating it all and my Muse showed up. For those who haven't met Muse, he's what many would call an imaginary friend. I say he is real, he just isn't manifested fully in the 3D. Anyway, he lets me vent all this, lament my guilt about not being further along in Time Walker and emotionally vomit all over his cloak.

He was not fazed in the least. 

"You can't write about life, if you don't live it."

"If you were locked in your room writing Time Walker, you wouldn't have seen that dirty moon with a chunk of its head missing. You wouldn't have noticed how it looked hungover and grumpy after taking on too much Cinco de Mayo." 

"If you were staring at your computer, channeling disincarnate characters to the page, you would have missed that one REAL touch across your back and that kiss on your neck that stopped your breath and made you shiver."

"You have been emotionaly flatlined for too long. All those confused thoughts and intense feelings roiling in your mind and heart are a gift; a palette of vibrant color and flavor for you to paint with later. Savor it. Know it. Understand it. Then translate it to the page so others can see themself in the picture you paint with words."

"Roll around in the petri dish of life, absorb it all, because it is ALL SO FLEETING. Then put it in your writing so it can be immortal."

 

"And yes. It is good for you."

That's what Muse said.

Maybe he is right. Maybe distraction is part of the process, a fountian of unlimited inspiration, and I should not resist it so much. The writing will come, birthed organically and naturally from the furtile ground of experience, not forged from a dislocated idea and mere vocabulary.

So I am going to enjoy the fleeting things. Like taking this hot cup of coffee to my patio, letting the sun warm my skin and watching the trumpet vine bloom.

Namaste, 

Shannan

Numinous Sunday Experience

 

 

Driving through the hills, on my way to manage chaos, allowing the smooth soul of James Morrison to seranade me.

"I got one life... one life... one life... and I'm gonna live it right."

His lyrics lick both spirit and senses.

Along the ridge rain clouds begin to bubble under the sunshine, signs of the percipitation that's to come. I feel the same, welling up right along with them; bouyant with happiness and deep peace, yet at the same time pierced deeply with a sadness that saturates me with unshed tears. I am both completely contant and overwhelmed by lonliness.

"I got one life... one life... one life... and I'm gonna live it right."

I think about writing. I think about Aislen. What she would do with clouds such as this in one of her many alternate realities.

Would she sweep them away so she could bask in the sun?

Would she tickle them with her fingertips and paint their raindrops across the sky?

Or would she gather them in an embrace and hold them, allowing them the downpour they crave?

"I got one life... one life... one life... and I'm gonna live it right."

A big rig slowly begins to pass me, blocking my view of the clouds.

First, I see the "R", capital and blue, shouting from the side panel. Then an "E" pulls along beside of me.

The truck gains speed as it overtakes my car.

Or maybe I slowed, knowing.

As the truck pulled ahead its message came fully into view.

"WALKER" on its side panel. "WALKER" on its doors. "WALKER" on each one of its 18 massive mud flaps.

"I got one life... one life... one life... and I'm gonna live it right."

The rain came.

And I am not alone.

Shannan

We live in the fiction.

Reposted from shannansinclair.com

What Are We Really Made Of?

 

 

Now that the major thrust of the Dream Walker book launch is behind me, it is back to the writing desk. Since my goal is to have Time Walker completed in time for Christmas, I have to really buckle down and get to work.

Writing is a discipline—not a gift. Some writers may have a really amazing way with words, but they got it on paper because of dedication and stamina—true grit.

One of my favorite things about the writing process is researching the ideas behind what I am writing about. Since my characters have a knack for leaving the physical realm, I spend a lot of time exploring the esoteric, paranormal, mystical, and quantum. Trying to find what lies poutside the box, so I can pull it back into the box. Not so unlike my protagonist, Aislen Walker.

So now that I am taking on the marathon of novel writing, I will not be blogging as intensely. What I will do is share some of the ideas I find during my explorations. Like this lil' nugget from Brian Greene: String Theory in Under 2 Minutes.

Enjoy. Then think about it.

 

What is that vibrating little string? And what makes it vibrate? 

Shannan 

We live in the fiction.

Reposted from shannansinclair.com