Eleyne-Mari Sharp's Blog, page 5
September 2, 2020
How on Earth Did I Survive Writing a Memoir?
In my One Writer Responds posts, I will attempt to answer the most-asked questions about my writing and my life.
I know that some readers have this image of an author sitting in a raggedy robe next to their computer with a bottle of Jack Daniels and burning cigarette on their desk as they sob through their memoirs. I'm not that dramatic. (Okay, I am that dramatic, but I don't smoke and I drink only when I've lost my ability to giggle, which is hardly ever.)
Without a doubt, writing ,,Mad About Hue: A Memoir in Living Color was more challenging than when I wrote my novels. I had no genie-in-a-bottle nor mentor to guide me through my memories of pain, doubt, anger, shame or frustrations. I just winged it.
You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better. ~ Anne Lamott
Was I worried that people would be upset because I wrote about them? Not really because my book wasn't written for revenge. And I didn't write Mad About Hue to heal, either, although I believe some healing did take place. I included specific memories in my book because they were true and I had made a personal commitment to be authentic, painful or not.
Sometimes writers embellish their memoirs, which I purposely avoided. Truth is, I was not so concerned about embellishing as I was about remembering. That was my biggest accomplishment, I think, considering I had purposely "forgotten" the shameful and embarrassing stuff. Another accomplishment was actually finishing the book. With so many emotions to relive, I was exhausted by the time I came to the end!
So how did I survive this ordeal, besides having an ample supply of junk food? In my case, my lifeline was—and still is—Color. That’s not surprising since I am a color therapist. So, whenever I felt unsure and needed grounding, I would work or play with the color Red. If I was feeling anxious, I’d turn to Blue. If I needed self-confidence, I would use Yellow. And the great thing about using Color to help you get through the emotional trauma of writing a memoir is that Color is always available.
Are you thinking about writing your own memoir? For anyone who doubts they can do this, no worries. All they have to do is take a deep breath, get it all out on the page—and keep a box of Kleenex handy!
Click here to order Mad About Hue: A Memoir in Living Color.
August 16, 2020
How Did I Become a Writer, Anyway?
In my One Writer Responds posts, I answer the most-asked questions about my writing and my life.
I watched the gypsy woman cough and sneeze, wiping her crusty nose with her ragged talon and using that same wet finger to trace a line on my otherwise dry palm. "It says so right here. There will be a lot of paper in your future."
Listening to her surreal pronouncement in that dark little room with the flashing, purple PALM READINGS! sign in Rockport, Massachusetts, I was quite distressed. At the time I was a young and vibrant female of 23 years, living out her dream as a young and vibrant singer.
I had sung in front of audiences ever since singer Marita Farrell, the founder of the Anchorage, Alaska opera, took me under her wing when I was five. I sang in junior high and high school talent shows, at Girl Scouts, in libraries, in church, and in chorus competitions. When I attended Frankfurt American High School in Germany, I was recruited to be one of the background singers for a popular German band's recording session. And when I returned to the States, I was the lead singer in two bands.
While I had yet to attain my greatest fantasies (fame and fortune, my own record label, a ranch with horses), I was busy pursuing a career I had dreamed about and trained for since I was a curly-haired tyke of five. So hello, Lady, is your crystal ball on the blink 'cause something's seriously wrong here! In my opinion, all this paper nonsense sounded suspiciously like trash collecting.
"No. You are going to be a writer. I see it," the gypsy insisted. "Ten dollars, please."
I didn't tell the gypsy, but I actually began writing in my early teens. I penned a cutesy column for our local American Youth Association newsletter called "Dinky's Doodles." I chose the moniker, "Dinky," to reflect my short stature, except no one ever called me that. A year later, I grew to 5 feet 8 1/2 inches and my "Dinky" days were over.
This was also the time when Precious Moments figurines and cards were popular; those sweet-faced imps were as prized by teenage girls as glass-eyed trolls and yellow smiley faces.
My mom had given me a Precious Moments diary for my 10th birthday and I remember staring at those blank pages for a long time, agonizing over what to write. Boys I like? Girls I hate? The pressure to create a lasting legacy was intense, so I decided there would have to be rules. Nothing went in which I was not 100 percent proud of. And no misspellings or cross-outs, either. Essentially, everything had to look and sound perfect in this sacred tome.
It wasn't long after that prophetic meeting with the gypsy that I abandoned my career as a singer, enrolled in a creative writing class, got an “A” from my professor, entered a statewide short story contest, and won first place.
My professor suggested I become a freelance writer, so I purchased a book called The Freelance Writers’ Handbook by Gary Provost and it became my dog-eared bible. That was in 1980. My path led me to become a journalist, copywriter, magazine and newspaper editor, and the founder of a national writers' organization.
Not long after I won the contest, I decided to take my $50 prize money and venture to Rockport again, intent on finding the gypsy fortune teller to thank her.
Alas, the sage and her flashing purple neon sign were gone. Disappointed, I wandered into a lovely Bearskin Neck pewter shop where I spent my winnings on a large pewter apple which opens into a handy shot glass holder.
I've never used it, but I keep it because it reminds me that anything is possible. A gypsy with a bad cold told me my path would change, and darned if she wasn’t right. Cheers!
Thank you for reading this excerpt from my nonfiction book, ,Write Awake: A Conscious Path to Creativity and Change .
July 31, 2020
Manifesting a Million Dollars
,On Day 3 of Deepak Chopra's 21-day Abundance Meditation Challenge, I received one million dollars.,What? You didn't hear about it on the news or on my Facebook page? You didn't get a phone call? That's because it was "pretend" money—I drew the check myself!
But wouldn't it be wonderful if...
,Daydreaming is a fun activity that anyone can do and it's something I've excelled at my entire life. In fact, I really should be a professional daydreamer. Wait a sec—I'm a writer, so I guess I am! But as much as I welcome financial abundance, that doesn't mean I'm not grateful for other types of abundance, too.
This week I've had an abundance of Love, Light, Water, and creative energy.
,I surpassed my writing goal at Camp NaNoWriMo, so that makes me a Winner. I'm happy about that achievement, but the honest truth is my heart wasn't really into my writing project and it had nothing to do with the pandemic.
,Without giving away too much information, the Little Blessing in Lightmover: The Illumination of Silver Violet ,is located in a parallel dimension. Even though I like how the book is developing, I've been longing to return to the original town. (It was a great hangout, you know?) This week, the Universe addressed my situation by ordering me to "Dry your tears and write another book before you publish Lightmover!"
,And so I have and I am. And it's amazing how this one little change has lifted my spirits. I'm literally whistling while I work!
With the writing well underway, I am inviting readers to join my Beta team for Moonwater Beach.
,I'm looking for honest feedback from individuals who've read Books 1 and 2 and want to help me make Moonwater Beach,a bestseller. If selected, you'll not only get a signed Advanced Readers Copy of the printed book, but my undying gratitude as well! Interested?
Ask. Believe. Receive.,That's the secret to manifesting. Whenever I get an idea for a new book, I create the cover first because it serves as my vision board and helps advance the manifestation process. And how lucky was I to manifest the perfect image of the seashell dreamcatcher on the beach! Ain't it purty?
Today I focus on what I want to attract into my life. ~ Deepak Chopra
,I hope you, too, get to manifest something wonderful this week. As for me, I'm looking forward to finishing Moonwater Beach ,and to cashing that first million dollar check—for real!
June 22, 2020
Owning It
Until recently, I never paid much attention to the original name of the state I’ve lived in for 30 years. Officially, it’s the state of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, settled in 1636 by religious leader Roger Williams.
Because of that inflammatory "plantations" word, I wouldn’t be surprised if there is an attempt to shorten our name to Rhode Island in November 2020. The Black Lives Matter movement has changed everything.
When I was very young, I was taught to say "colored people" instead of "negro." That was the polite word for the Black race, I was told. In our house, we never used that other "N" word—the hateful one—for fear of having our mouths washed out with soap. I did hear it on the playground—sometimes as a rhyme. But whenever I needed to count something, I always used the "Eeny, meeny, miny, mo, catch a piggy by the toe" version.
As a military brat who had lived in Europe with Black Americans as my friends and schoolmates, bigotry just didn’t register. Regardless of our skin color and our hometowns, we were all just Americans in a foreign land, united in our desires to return to the States. If there was racism at my schools, I never saw it.
One day in St. Louis in 1974, I was stabbed in an attempted rape by a Black man.
I’ll never know if the police ever captured the assailant, but I do remember the words of my uncle when he picked me up from the hospital: "See what I mean? A Black man did this to you! Are you gonna still defend them?"
I knew what he meant by "them." We had argued about "them" before and no, I did not hate Black people, just because I was assaulted one time by a Black man. It could have easily been a White man, I told my uncle.
Many years later, I worked for a Black syndicated television show in Washington, D.C. I was proud to be the only White person on staff, to be included and recognized as an ally. I felt no prejudice towards my fellow co-workers, nor did I feel they treated me differently because I was White. We were a team.
Currently in the United States, there are two colors at war. Nationwide protests have arisen because of the multitude of injustices towards the Black race by the Blue-uniformed police forces. We have seen the "red flags" of warning for many years and, as a result, thousands have banded together with "Black Lives Matter" and "I Can’t Breathe" signs to protest centuries of inhumane treatment toward Black Americans.
One of the Black protesters said he just wanted "to be free and not have to think about every step I take because at the end of the day, being Black is a crime.”
I’ve had many Black friends and co-workers over the years, but I don’t recall ever asking how they felt about being Black. To me, it would have been as ludicrous as someone asking me how it felt to be White.
Readers, the end of slavery in the United States was officially proclaimed by Abraham Lincoln in 1863. And now, here we are, nearly 200 years later, at a historic turning point. At this moment, real changes are being made by corporations and individuals supporting the Black Lives Matter revolution. The racial stereotype of Aunt Jemima is being retired and Uncle Ben and Mrs. Butterworth may be next. Did you hear that the Band-aid company has committed to creating a line of racially-diverse bandages to match different skin tones? I mean, who could have predicted that?
I read an article where one of the people interviewed said that White people who say they care should widen their social circle with people of color.
I applaud that idea, but the plain and awful truth is I don’t know any Black people anymore. There are no Black people in my neighborhood. Does that make me a racist? No, I didn’t plan that. It wasn’t deliberate.
But here’s what I have done deliberately. I have walked to the other side of the street when I saw a Black man approaching. More than once. More than twice. Okay, a lot.
I have told stories like this: "A Black man was shopping at the supermarket when he met his Black wife." Maybe it’s because I’m a writer and I’m used to being descriptive, but isn’t distinguishing a person’s color a form of racism? Because if the characters happen to be White, I rarely mention it.
And if somebody tells me they saw on the news that that same supermarket was robbed, I might ask: "Was it a Black guy that did it?"
Yeah, I might.
So here I am, a 64-year old White woman—a spiritual woman—who has been disillusioned to think she didn’t have a prejudiced bone in her body. Well, I may not be a hate-filled, White hood-wearing racist, but I surely have said some racist things and I’m owning it.
I’m owning it and I am ashamed.
I should know better, especially since I believe that words can hurt us, just as much as those sticks and stones.
I have heard that it isn’t the job of Black people to educate White people about racism. So, as a White person who wishes to be better, I have embraced the color energy of Yellow to educate myself. I have spent the past few weeks watching countless interviews and reading documents about slavery and racism, including the story of
What I have learned has been enlightening and often disturbing. But see? I am not too old to learn!
I am not too old to listen to a different viewpoint nor to speak up whenever I hear racism being expressed.
Last week, I spent some time in a forum where it was announced that a private group would be established for people of color only. I was stunned.
While I certainly have no issue with people of color having their own private group, I did question the way the organization handled the matter. They made their big announcement, adding that White people need not apply because it wasn’t for them.
I feel strongly that in order to unify and heal, we need open discussion about racism with no race excluded. And I said so.
You can probably guess what happened. Despite my good intentions, I was immediately attacked. Many in the forum believed the group was a great idea because people of color needed a private, safe place to talk about their lives without White people horning in on the discussion. Others felt this was a form of segregation and discrimination against White people, and that outcry was supported by some people of color, too.
The forum thread quickly became a hotbed of anger and accusations, mostly against White privilege. And even though I had only posted once and wholeheartedly disagreed with most of what was being said, I felt my job was to listen and so I kept silent, watching and learning.
And here’s the irony: what developed was a lengthy, general discussion about racism—with no race excluded!
I may not be perfect but here’s what I know for sure: I did not choose my race nor my circumstances, but I can step up.
I am not too old to donate to organizations like
And I am certainly not too old to vote for the visionaries who will work towards positive change.
The author James Baldwin said: “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced.”
For me, talking and writing about racism has been very uncomfortable. But it is an ugly, open sore that has continued to ooze and fester, and we can no longer ignore it.
It is time we did some deep color healing and value each other as equals.
June 21, 2020
Owning It
Until recently, I never paid much attention to the original name of the state I’ve lived in for 30 years. Officially, it’s the state of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, settled in 1636 by religious leader Roger Williams.
Because of that inflammatory "plantations" word, I wouldn’t be surprised if there is an attempt to shorten our name to Rhode Island in November 2020. The Black Lives Matter movement has changed everything.
When I was very young, I was taught to say "colored people" instead of "negro." That was the polite word for the Black race, I was told. In our house, we never used that other "N" word—the hateful one—for fear of having our mouths washed out with soap. I did hear it on the playground—sometimes as a rhyme. But whenever I needed to count something, I always used the "Eeny, meeny, miny, mo, catch a piggy by the toe" version.
As a military brat who had lived in Europe with Black Americans as my friends and schoolmates, bigotry just didn’t register. Regardless of our skin color and our hometowns, we were all just Americans in a foreign land, united in our desires to return to the States. If there was racism at my schools, I never saw it.
One day in St. Louis in 1974, I was stabbed in an attempted rape by a Black man.
I’ll never know if the police ever captured the assailant, but I do remember the words of my uncle when he picked me up from the hospital: "See what I mean? A Black man did this to you! Are you gonna still defend them?"
I knew what he meant by "them." We had argued about "them" before and no, I did not hate Black people, just because I was assaulted one time by a Black man. It could have just as easily been a White man, I told my uncle.
Many years later, I worked for a Black syndicated television show in Washington, D.C. I was proud to be the only White person on staff, to be included and recognized as an ally. I felt no prejudice towards my fellow co-workers, nor did I feel they treated me differently because I was White. We were a team.
Currently in the United States, there are two colors at war.
Nationwide protests have arisen because of the multitude of injustices towards the Black race by the Blue-uniformed police forces. We have seen the "red flags" of warning for many years and, as a result, thousands have banded together with "Black Lives Matter" and "I Can’t Breathe" signs to protest centuries of inhumane treatment toward Black Americans.
One of the Black protesters said he just wanted "to be free and not have to think about every step I take because at the end of the day, being Black is a crime.”
I’ve had many Black friends and co-workers over the years, but I don’t recall ever asking how they felt about being Black. To me, it would have been as ludicrous as someone asking me how it felt to be White.
Friends, the end of slavery in the United States was officially proclaimed by Abraham Lincoln in 1863. And now, here we are, nearly 200 years later, at a historic turning point. At this moment, real changes are being made by corporations and individuals supporting the Black Lives Matter revolution. The racial stereotype of Aunt Jemima is being retired and Uncle Ben and Mrs. Butterworth may be next. Did you hear that the Band-aid company has committed to creating a line of racially-diverse bandages to match different skin tones? I mean, who could have predicted that?
I read an article where one of the people interviewed said that White people who say they care should widen their social circle with people of color. I applaud that idea, but the plain and awful truth is I don’t know any Black people anymore. There are no Black people in my neighborhood. Does that make me a racist? No, I didn’t plan that. It wasn’t deliberate.
But here’s what I have done deliberately. I have walked to the other side of the street when I saw a Black man approaching. More than once. More than twice. Okay, a lot.
I have told stories like this: "A Black man was shopping at the supermarket when he met his Black wife." Maybe it’s because I’m a writer and I’m used to being descriptive, but isn’t distinguishing a person’s color a form of racism? Because if the characters happen to be White, I rarely mention it.
And if somebody tells me they saw on the news that that same supermarket was robbed, I might ask: "Was it a Black guy that did it?"
So, here I am, a 64-year old White woman who has been disillusioned to think she didn’t have a prejudiced bone in her body. Well, I may not be a hate-filled, White hood-wearing racist, but I surely have said some racist things and I’m owning it and I am ashamed. I should know better, especially since I believe that words can hurt us, just as much as those sticks and stones.
I have heard that it isn’t the job of Black people to educate White people about racism. So, as a White person who wishes to be better, I have embraced the color energy of Yellow to educate myself. I have spent the past few weeks watching countless interviews and reading documents about slavery and racism, including the story of
What I have learned has been enlightening and often disturbing. But see? I am not too old to learn!
I am not too old to listen to a different viewpoint nor to speak up whenever I hear covert racism being expressed.
Last week, I spent some time in a forum where it was announced that a private group would be established for people of color only. I was stunned.
While I certainly have no issue with people of color having their own private group, I did question the way the organization handled the matter. They made their big announcement, adding that White people need not apply because it wasn’t for them.
I feel strongly that in order to unify and heal, we need open discussion about racism (with no race excluded) and I said so.
You can probably guess what happened. Despite my good intentions, I was immediately attacked. Many in the forum believed the group was a great idea because people of color needed a private, safe place to talk about their lives without White people horning in on the discussion. Others felt this was a form of segregation and discrimination against White people, and that outcry was supported by some people of color, too.
The forum thread quickly became a hotbed of anger and accusations, mostly against White privilege. Even though I had only posted once and wholeheartedly disagreed with most of what was being said, I felt my job was to listen and so I kept silent, watching and learning.
And here’s the irony: what developed was a lengthy, general discussion about racism—with no race excluded!
I may not be perfect but here’s what I know for sure: I did not choose my race nor my circumstances, but I can step up.
I am not too old to donate to organizations like
And I am certainly not too old to vote for the visionaries who will work towards positive change.
The author James Baldwin said: “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced.”
For me, talking and writing about racism has been very uncomfortable. It is an ugly, open sore that has continued to ooze and fester, and we can no longer ignore it.
It is time we did some deep color healing and value each other as equals.
May 19, 2020
Still "Colorful" After All These Years
I was so excited when I received my brand new deck of Starseed Oracle cards. Not that I don’t have, like, thirty decks already, but because this deck had been calling to me for at least a year and I finally got the courage to order it. I felt it was calling me home—not to Rhode Island or even anywhere on Earth. It was calling me to my cosmic home, as in outer space. The stars. E.T. Phone home.
Pretty weird, right? And in case you’re wondering—no, I haven’t been smoking anything. Not during this decade, anyway.
Let’s be honest here. Nobody wants to be labeled as weird. That means you are super strange and many people believe there is no place for weirdness on this planet. So you can imagine my surprise when in one of my daily readings, the message I received from my new oracle cards was to embrace my weirdness!
Hah! As if I haven’t done that already!
Growing up, I never thought of myself as a particularly weird kid. Just expressive. Creative. Imaginative. Colorful. Although if you were to ask someone who knew me, they might say otherwise. Weird is weird, right?
So what makes a person officially weird, you might ask? Do they wear outlandish clothes? Do they say outlandish things? And who, exactly, determines what makes all this weird in the first place? I’ll tell you who. It’s Society.
Back when I was a schoolgirl, Society dictated that normal girls wore their hair a certain way and their skirts a certain length and they never, ever crossed their legs at the knee or burped in public. They drew nice things in art class (like bunnies and butterflies), made conservative dresses in sewing class, and never tried to out-sing anyone in choir. And they most certainly never acted like they were horses, snorting and whinnying as they galloped through the school’s hallowed hallways!
Okay, I did that last thing and I’d do it again if I had to live this life over. My point is that it didn’t take me long to formulate the opinion that Society didn’t want me to venture outside of the box. Society didn’t want me to have fun. Oh, I tried to be good, I really did, but I often felt like Society was lying in wait to prod me into a tiny metal cage with a sign hanging from it that read: "Danger! Too weird to be released."
One of my favorite poems is "When I am an old lady, I shall wear purple." I thought it was amusing in my twenties and now I’m in my sixties, so I guess I’ve reached the appropriate age to act upon it. I read that the actor Peter Sellers had been afraid of the color purple. Can you imagine? Now, some people might think that’s a bit weird!
During my early teens, I went through a Purple phase. My treasures included a stuffed purple cow, purple-haired troll doll, purple rabbit's foot keychain (shameful, but true), purple notebooks, purple feather pens, purple sneakers, purple sweaters, purple earrings, purple fishnet stockings, and a vintage recording about a one-eyed, one-horned, flyin' Purple People Eater.
When my uncle was getting married, I had my heart set on wearing a dark purple and white polka-dotted mini dress to the wedding. Oh, how Mom and I fought over that one! Not because of the length, surprisingly, but the color. It was not wedding appropriate, Mom said. Well, I guess I finally wore her down because I remember sitting in the church pew feeling like a million bucks while feeling sorry for the other guests, looking uncomfortable in their lackluster, powdery pastels. But me? I was having more fun than anyone in Deep Purple!
I used to know a girl named Nancy in high school. We sang in honor choir together and later became a singing duo because our voices complemented each other. Nancy had this long, naturally curly red hair that she would often flip over her shoulder in a dramatic way. She made a lot of her own clothes and wore a lot of purple, which looked great against her amazing hair. I thought she was the coolest person I knew and once we went to a Ray Charles concert together. I didn’t even know who he was before Nancy.
For a time, we were close like sisters and then we had a falling out over a boy, I think. But I’ll never forget how comfortable Nancy seemed in her own skin. Sure, some kids called her weird because of her colorful, mystical, flowy outfits. But to me, Nancy was a role model. She had the courage to show the world just how colorful and unique she was.
Another colorful person was John Lennon. He was The Beatle who said: “It’s weird not to be weird.” But weirdness doesn’t always make you crazy. I mean, how many of our geniuses and visionaries and artists were considered weirdos in their time? I’m talking about you, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Emily Dickinson, Albert Einstein, Howard Hughes, Andy Warhol, Liberace, Janis Joplin, and Michael Jackson!
On The Color Channel on YouTube, there are short videos featuring women who only wear one color, like pink, orange, yellow or blue. They adore these colors and their homes reflect that particular color frequency. They’re happy and free, so is that weird or incredibly smart?
Is it really that weird to surround yourself with the things—and colors—you love? Here in my office of many colors, for example, are my collection of dollhouses and roomboxes, a Harry Potter doll, stuffed fairy doll, seashells, crystals, essential oils, herb apothecary, crystal singing bowl, Tibetan singing bowl, chakra tuning forks, Ocean Drum, tingsha bells, an autumn fairy house, color therapy glasses, color therapy lights, hundreds of self-healing books, a pinwheel, a bag of jacks, and a bottle of bubbles. It’s where I unleash my Inner Child to have fun, write, play, and magically manifest every single day.
Colorful people have colorful lives! We’re bold, and many of us stand out in a crowd because we think outside the box! We’re Highly Creative People who daydream, watch people, lose track of time, and seek new experiences. We are risk takers!
Have you been guided to embrace your weirdness, too? Then join me as a Colorful Creative and let color be your muse! Get out the paints, the makeup, the colorful fabric, and let your imagination flow!
Life is Beautiful with Rose-colored Glasses
There’s a scene in the movie, Romancing the Stone, where a group of drug dealers are pointing guns at our heroes and Jack Colton says to his romance novelist companion: "Okay, Joan Wilder, write us out of this one."
I’ve always liked that line. And if I could write an alternative plot to our current situation, I can assure you it would not include social distancing, mask wearing, empty shelves in supermarkets nor coffins inside makeshift morgues at skating rinks.
I would put on my rose-colored glasses and write us out of this awful story. I would make us brave and hopeful and positive. I would write about being grateful for green grasses, blue skies, yellow daffodils, and turquoise waters. I would describe a wonderful world of unconditional love and beauty, a refuge where fear and anger simply do not exist. That’s what I would do if I was wearing rose-colored glasses.
"Wearing rose-colored glasses" is a term used to describe a person who sees only the positive in the negative.
When we take a closer look at the color in our rose-colored glasses, we find a gentle tint of Pink. With rose, your energy isn't consumed with anger and hate. Rose inspires you to see the world anew, to develop compassion for yourself as well as others. It helps you feel and appear more youthful, improves tunnel vision, and reduces computer eye strain.
And with so many people taking anti-depressants these days, wearing rose-colored glasses is a more pleasant alternative to taking Prozac.
But whether you choose to wear rose-colored glasses or not, our planet is emerging into a new Earth and will never be the same again. That, I believe, is the truth. And for some, the truth is unsettling because so much darkness has been exposed and they don’t know how to cope.
The other day I saw a quote by Australian author Christine Caine that stopped me right in my tracks:
Sometimes when you’re in a dark place you think you’ve been buried, but you’re actually planted.
Wow. Think about that for a moment.
What if you are actually here at this time in our planet’s history, not to struggle, but to thrive? What if you are here to grow with Light, to bloom where you are planted? To give comfort and beauty to your friends and neighbors?
If we are to have a blissful New Earth, we need to shift our consciousness. We need to cast aside our darkest fears and focus instead on co-creating a planet of Light.
Fortunately, there are two very important high vibrational, heart-expanding colors that can help us achieve this: Pink and Turquoise.
Pink has been called "The Great Improver." It is a gentle, loving color used to establish compassion and self love. Pink is the color of newness, awakening, connecting you with your Inner Child. With the Pink vibration, you learn how to play and to see beauty in all things.
The color Turquoise is that wonderful blue-green combination that helps you find the peace within and it also encourages you to share that peace with others. Turquoise is known for strengthening your immunity and your manifesting skills, reminding you that anything is possible. With Turquoise, you can create an abundance of new thoughts and things. Your creative expression is expanded.
Together, Pink and Turquoise make quite the colorful dream team.
They help you become self-sufficient and to create and communicate through the high heart, bringing more harmony, balance, and respect into your life. Doesn’t that sound like a better way to co-create a new normal?
Here’s an assignment. For at least 21 days, try breathing, wearing, and surrounding yourself with the colors Pink and Turquoise—and notice how much better you feel!
April 1, 2020
The Memories of Scents
Hot. So. Darn. Hot.
I’ve never been a fan of the dog days of summer, so I am very grateful that Nick installed our air conditioners before I seriously began to melt. But there’s one thing that’s really driving me crazy: I’m having a serious banana and coconut craving!
Ever since the temperature crept up to 90 degrees last month, I’ve been on the lookout for that lovely banana/coconut aroma that seems to only be found on suntanning bodies at beaches farther away than ours.
Feelings. It's not just the title of a song, but the gift of songs. Songs remind us of another time, another place. We hear a song and instantly remember where we were, who we were with and whether it was a good or unpleasant experience.
The same thing happens with scents. For example, whenever I smell Sweet Orange essential oil, I feel immediately uplifted because it evokes happy memories of the childhood summers I spent riding my bicycle and slurping orange-flavored popsicles.
On the flipside, Patchouli's odor is strong and offensive and reminds me of unwashed, drugged-out hippies. The strange thing is I've never met a real-life hippie!
Writers depend upon their senses when evoking the right location, scene or character. But one that is rarely discussed is their sense of smell.
Here are a few more impressions:
Cedarwood - Love it! Love it! Cedarwood makes me feel grounded, nurtured and clean. Conjures images of newly built wooden homes and cedar closets.
Cinnamon - This is a scent I know well, as Cinnamon is my favorite cooking spice. Cinnamon is like a loving mother, offering an abundance of warmth, love and security.
Frankincense - To me, this fragrance represents heaven on earth. I envision myself walking down a path through a damp, green forest. But I also see myself levitating way above the pews inside a beautiful high-ceiling cathedral with stained glass windows. Whenever I've visited Renaissance fairs, Frankincense fills the air and it both excites and comforts me. This is a very spiritual oil which enables me to feel one with the Source.
Myrrh - My mind immediately thinks of musty, old fur coats in attics and thrift shops. Myrrh is not an unpleasant odor; it just reminds me of things that are no longer needed.
Roman Chamomile - This scent permeated the Swiss mountain chalet I stayed in many years ago. Whenever I smell Roman Chamomile, I instantly think of Switzerland and sweet-smelling hay, not the apple-like scent many people perceive. Generally, I find Roman Chamomile to be very dominant, a combination of dried earth and flowers.
Rosemary - When I was a little girl with a bad cold, my mother would rub my chest with Vick's Vapor Rub. It had that strong, camphorous odor and so does Rosemary. So, unfortunately, I think of sickness whenever I smell Rosemary. (Incidentally, my mother's name is Rosemary. Sorry, Mom!)
Like songs, Aromatherapy can reveal a myriad of feelings, whether it's anger, elation or grief. Used alone or combined with the energies of color and crystals, inhaling an essential oil or blend can help you find your soul's deep connection to the Universe, heal your heart and redeem your spirit.
Writing Exercise
Apply an aromatherapy blend to your wrist. Sniff the scent and write about your reaction.
Scents and Senses
Hot. So. Darn. Hot.
I’ve never been a fan of the dog days of summer, so I am very grateful that Nick installed our air conditioners before I seriously began to melt. But there’s one thing that’s really driving me crazy: I’m having a serious banana and coconut craving!
Ever since the temperature crept up to 90 degrees last month, I’ve been on the lookout for that lovely banana/coconut aroma that seems to only be found on suntanning bodies at beaches farther away than ours.
Feelings. It's not just the title of a song, but the gift of songs. Songs remind us of another time, another place. We hear a song and instantly remember where we were, who we were with and whether it was a good or unpleasant experience.
The same thing happens with scents. For example, whenever I smell Sweet Orange essential oil, I feel immediately uplifted because it evokes happy memories of the childhood summers I spent riding my bicycle and slurping orange-flavored popsicles.
On the flipside, Patchouli's odor is strong and offensive and reminds me of unwashed, drugged-out hippies. The strange thing is I've never met a real-life hippie!
Writers depend upon their senses when evoking the right location, scene or character. But one that is rarely discussed is their sense of smell.
Here are a few more impressions:
Cedarwood - Love it! Love it! Cedarwood makes me feel grounded, nurtured and clean. Conjures images of newly built wooden homes and cedar closets.
Cinnamon - This is a scent I know well, as Cinnamon is my favorite cooking spice.
Cinnamon is like a loving mother, offering an abundance of warmth, love and security.
Frankincense - To me, this fragrance represents heaven on earth. I envision myself walking down a path through a damp, green forest. But I also see myself levitating way above the pews inside a beautiful high-ceiling cathedral with stained glass windows. Whenever I've visited Renaissance fairs, Frankincense fills the air and it both excites and comforts me. This is a very spiritual oil which enables me to feel one with the Source.
Myrrh - My mind immediately thinks of musty, old fur coats in attics and thrift shops. Myrrh is not an unpleasant odor; it just reminds me of things that are no longer needed.
Roman Chamomile - This scent permeated the Swiss mountain chalet I stayed in many years ago. Whenever I smell Roman Chamomile, I instantly think of Switzerland and sweet-smelling hay, not the apple-like scent many people perceive. Generally, I find Roman Chamomile to be very dominant, a combination of dried earth and flowers.
Rosemary - When I was a little girl with a bad cold, my mother would rub my chest with Vick's Vapor Rub. It had that strong, camphorous odor and so does Rosemary. So, unfortunately, I think of sickness whenever I smell Rosemary. (Incidentally, my mother's name is Rosemary. Sorry, Mom!)
Like songs, Aromatherapy can reveal a myriad of feelings, whether it's anger, elation or grief. Used alone or combined with the energies of color and crystals, inhaling an essential oil or blend can help you find your soul's deep connection to the Universe, heal your heart and redeem your spirit.
