AN AFTERNOON ON MONTMARTRE on the Right Bank of Paris, 18th Arrondissement—or, is it MAIN STREET, OLD SAYBROOK?—with my granddaughter, Victoria.

We had just had a scrumptious lunch at The Paperback Café—the character Sally in When Harry Met Sally had nothing on Victoria when ordering her meal—an egg and veggie wrap, no cheese, no mushroom, avocado on the side, carrot sticks instead of hash brown, etc., etc.

I mentioned the movie title to her; she had not seen it yet. Experiencing a momentary lapse in memory (surely, not a senior moment just yet!), I tried to think of the actress’ name and said:

“Oh, you know who, bla, bla, bla…” Couldn’t think of it.

To which she replied:

“Oh, that narrows it down!”

That’s our Victoria. A droll wit, very observant, very direct. She came right out with her experience recently of her sister Chelsea going off to college a week ago:

“My sister left me and I made thirty dinners and froze them.”

It explained all.

Further, she is likely to make unexpected announcements, like:

“I made a broccoli-based salad, since I didn’t have lettuce,” and give an impromptu lecture on the nutritious value between almond milk and rice milk. Victoria is bold, creative, informative—one of a kind—sharing her discoveries and astute life observations readily with whoever cares to listen. I thoroughly enjoy her company.

We were to take Amtrak to Richmond, Virginia during the week to visit friends for a few days, until Amtrak “ran” from Hurricane Earl, canceled our train, and here we were wanting to enjoy a day doing what pleased us—or, her, mostly, because it was to be her final getaway before school began.

I had hoped she would pick a leisurely walk on the beach at Hammonasset, or the well-received movie, Mao’s Last Dancer, but no! I cringed, though hardly noticeably, when I heard her choice of activity for the afternoon.

She wanted to go to the Clayhouse paint-your-own Pottery Studio and create. You paint on a blank ready-made clay form, and when the art is finished they glaze it, fire it, and make it look beautiful.

She picked out a white square platter, visualizing a fall scene of trees, pumpkins and swirling leaves. It was to be her autumnal cookie platter.

Pretending joyful anticipation I chose a wine goblet for my friend Gail’s birthday. Gail is a wine connoisseur.

I thought of taking the easy way out and stenciling grapes on the cup, but since I couldn’t find grape cutouts I was already at a loss as to what to substitute.

“Ah, acoustic jazz!” Victoria sighed, the little music aficionado, appreciating the background music, then closed her golden-brown eyes for a moment:

“I’m in Zen…” she sighed, then leaned over her plate and began her confident, whimsical brushstrokes with her carefully selected paint

Art is in my blood, the appreciation of it, that is. Otherwise it’s a taboo subject. Living on the shoreline I am surrounded by galleries I visit frequently. I have a lot of artist friends and I marvel at their gift. But the thought of putting pencil or brush to a blank canvas horrifies me. Back in the dusty nooks of my childhood a mean second grade teacher–who didn’t approve of the snowman I drew–made me stay after school until I drew one to her satisfaction.

It took 200 snowmen for her to release me, and I went home that day with a firm conviction that I had no talent whatsoever as an artist.

As if tuning into my rhapsodic memories, Victoria chides me for my resistance:

“There are no mistakes. Only learning experiences.”

The insight has a familiar ring to it. Didn’t I coax her mother with the same words decades ago?

Victoria generously offered her help, showing me around the studio, leading me step by step, but when it came to choosing colors on the plastic-wrapped mini-palette she drew the line:

“Choose whatever colors you want, it’s your picture,” she declared and moved away from me, ck to her awaiting project. Abandoning me to my plight.

And there she sat across the table from me, with a rosy blush on her cheeks, plunging into her sea of creativity, completely engrossed in her project. She saw her picture before she began to work on it, the way I see my characters when I’m writing a story.

So many colors, so many different shapes and sizes of brushes, sponges, and other tools besides!  Decisions, decisions, decisions!  And my mind froze in fear of choosing the “wrong” ones.

Sadly, for me, nothing emerged out of the great mists of subconscious. Fear ruled, in the form of the dominatrix second-grade teacher.

Years ago I had thought of working through this issue of mine, it had haunted and limited me long enough, I decided, and planned to attend an art workshop with Tommi Di Paolo, at Omega Holistic Center in Rhinebeck, New York. Tommi was a children’s book writer and illustrator, with just the right attitude of anything goes I felt I needed to open up to the experience and give myself permission to—whatever! Providing me with a carte blanche to creative self-expression.

I never did.

And now here I was, sitting across from my 16 year old granddaughter who never needed permission to do what came naturally to her—drawing and painting, dress design, singing, acting, figure skating…

I surveyed my palette: did I choose the absolutely best colors of paint? Would others do more justice to my reluctant-to-emerge image?

In an excellent effort to procrastinate I began reading one of the many design idea books. That lasted about ten seconds, then I exclaimed:

“I’m just not good at following directions.”

I felt a little dialogue was in order to pass the time, and continued my walkabout monologue:

“I suppose the idea is to learn the technical elements first, then begin with a basic foundation…” I veered off wistfully, looking for a graceful way out of my predicament.

I’d much rather be walking on the shore… No emotional block to break through there!

“Use some technique, then use some of you!”

Victoria never even looked up from her evolving painting, yet the casual words from my little guru sounded eminently sensible, now if I could just put it into action.

Then she looked up, beamed a smile, and added the magic, transformative words:

“You can’t fail.”

Surely I had said something like it to her mother eons ago and my message was returning to haunt/encourage me!

So, I plunged into the vast unknown, grabbed the blank piece of bisque, and began to paint.

I painted engrossed for about ten minutes straight, then stopped and took a very deep breath.

“I forgot to breathe!” I exclaimed, coming up for air and she snickered in that Oh, Grammie! way of a tolerant teenager, bemused by the foibles of age.

She took 2 1/2 hours for her masterpiece and knew just exactly when it was complete. (I have written a 400 page manuscript and still don’t feel quite finished!)

And, she knew she didn’t need one more pumpkin in the opposite corner of her fall scene—my suggestion, which I promptly withdrew.

I was done in approximately 30 minutes. Got an iced coffee from across the street, went back, watched her concentrated effort, did a bit of dancing-in-the-aisle to some mellow background music to limber up—then sat down abruptly, because suddenly, I began to see! And to know that there had to be one or two more droplets of pale pink flowers upward on the stem of the goblet, to connect the base with the cup—sheer genius!

The Muse had finally taken me by the hand.

At the end, I was proud of my accomplishment.

My girlfriend, Gail, may open up her gift and cry out with glad recognition: “Oh, Tuscan poplars!” or, she may exclaim: “Oh, what a lovely mish-mash, very expressionistic!”

Whatever. I had heard it’s the thought that counts.

What a relief it’s over, though!

P.S. I know, I know: Meg Ryan!

Are you drawn or are you driven?

How does one answer, how does one know?

Your essence—your soul—is malleable, flexible, resilient, forever in flow. It calls to you, every day, every hour, every moment; it sends you soft little pulsations, electric currents that enter your spirit, calling your attention to something noteworthy—of sadness and joy, of beauty, of tragedy, of the valuable ephemeral nature of being. And, of your own mission.

It is in your essence that you can be reborn through an illness, perhaps life-threatening; it is in your essence that you are able to reinvent yourself, over and over again, as your spirit demands. It is the phoenix that rises from the ashes.

Your essence is also the psychic shield around you that prevents alien entrance, psychic damage. If under attack, it makes sure you win. If trampled upon in your spirit, you bounce back. Always.

To maintain it two things are required of you: truth, foregoing your most idealized fallacies, and courage to risk an open heart and surrender your favorite, most rugged defenses.

And with each breath you take you are choosing to be drawn, or continue to be driven.

Icarus was driven. We know his fate. Leonardo de Vinci, who stared at a blank wall for months seeing images evolving and visualized the whole picture before he took up a brush, he was drawn.

How do you distinguish between the two energy forces compelling you to act, or not to act?

You know by how you feel. Agitated as opposed to at peace. Tight around your heart or a soft looseness, an effortless surrender. Breathless with tension, or breathless in awe.

Ego versus Self.

Ego’s needs are usually compensatory. Based on some old misperception, believing yourself to be no-good, or not good enough, you attempt to compensate, to feel good, to feel—enough. You attempt by doing, not by being, so it either works for the moment, promising a false sense of wholeness and security, or not at all. The moments it seems to work keep you trying, stuck on a never-stopping, never-ending treadmill, the occasional nature of its momentary success growing, eventually, into a confirmed addiction.

Ego is an inflated balloon full of hot air, constantly concerned about a puncture; the slightest prick can rupture and deflate it. A lot of work, time and energy goes into keeping it afloat; of course, the higher it flies, the bigger it is, the lower it has to come once it’s punctured. Which, ultimately, it always is, since it cannot maintain itself and one gets tired in trying.

The Self simply is. It maintains itself, feeds itself, motivates itself. It’s real

I reconnected with an old boyfriend after many years. All the characteristics that made me leave him then—resistance to change, defiance, denial, a quickness to anger, to judgment—were gone. They all got burned up in his pain of losing his mother. He confronted his greatest fears, he had to. He wanted to survive.

“When you give up the ego, you stop being afraid. You can only lose your ego, never your self. Your self is constant.” He says things like this nowadays. For me it’s worth it to stay around, just to hear some more.

Once you choose essence, life becomes easy, effortless. Low-maintenance. You stop running after things, thinking you’d be happy if only…. You begin to notice and to appreciate the little things—the beauty of a random smile, the magic of instant rapport.

A no-tension life leaves you open, so things you used to yearn and strive for ardently arrive at your door, beckoned by a silent inner voice that has the power to reach and bring forth the seemingly impossible. Magic becomes the norm.

It is living in your essence, espousing your True Self, that you survive, hear your calling, thrive, and keep moving.

As we are meant to do.

You wait things out with patience. You trust the words of Teresa of Avila: All is well, and all is always well. You stop trying to push the river and learn to flow with the flow. And you notice that every now and then, on some mystical timing, you are urged into action—right action. You are called.

Creativity resides in your Essence. People ask me how long does it take for me to write an article. I tell them it takes just about fifteen minutes—or it never happens. First a title pops into my head and cheerfully says: Hello! Then the words follow—rushing, gushing, pouring out…. Seemingly, all by themselves, without prompting, without first staring at a blank page in agony. They just come, as if by invitation only, spurred on by an invisible force, like right now.

In writing this, I was answering a call, and I let myself be led. Amidst all the discordant holiday cacophony, I finally managed to create a silence in which I was able to hear the words asking to formulate, asking to become.

Paying homage to false values, false gods, the voice of Ego is loud, insistent and harsh; that of Essence is but a whisper. You need to be quiet and still to hear the small voice within that becomes a suggestion, and finally inspiration, calling you to action.

The vision of Ego is blurred and limited, only taking in its immediate surroundings that satisfy its immediate, urgent needs. The vision of Essence is far-reaching and clear.

A new year is dawning. Let us be here, really here, and silently watch the sun come up.

2002–Driving along Rt 169, Pomfret, Quiet Corner, Connecticut… God’s country… Humming some quaint Cole Porter medley.

Passing by a lovely pink Bed & Breakfast, the name: Celebrations. A majestic fairytale castle. Is it real or am I dreaming, and it’s actually spun sugar?

I feel like celebrating. I also have an inner urge to meet the person who conceived of the name, surely a kindred spirit, in homage to the goddess of joie de vivre!

I step on the break, make a hasty “U-ie”, and gingerly drive down the curvy dirt driveway leading up to the beautiful edifice with the welcoming expansive wraparound porch and wraparound gardens.

Meet the owner, Jean Barton, who tells me the story of how she came to be innkeeper of this gorgeous Victorian mansion. In a nutshell, she was following up on a dream, turning it into a passion.

The story is interesting enough in itself, meanwhile I tell her about a women’s gathering, called Women’s Passion in Action, that I recently helped create at Water’s Edge Resort in Westbrook. An affair in which women could shine and give much-needed permission for other women to follow their bliss.

A distinct meant-to-be, our meeting on that glowing, pink-edged afternoon …

For years later, there I was, sitting at a beautifully appointed table at Celebrations, now a gallery voted #1 by Yankee Magazine, surrounded by glorious artwork and objets–d‘art—all tangible results of women pursuing their passions—signing my memoir, GATHERING ROSES, THORNS AND ALL, to interested women stopping by. Sharing with them stories of meant-to-bes. Connecting with women who have also experienced and learned to appreciate the roses-and-thorns nature of a fully-lived life. The exquisite pleasure of recognition!

Ah, the magic of the Ripple Effect!

What if I never made that totally unlawful U-ie? (By the way, I did make sure no one was coming in either direction!)

I would have missed all the magic…

No regrets. Not this time.

Then there are those times when I fail to listen to the little voice, fail to follow the inner urge to take an unprecedented step, take a risk, perhaps slightly reckless, and open a brand new door…

Running into a gust of wind instead of away from it.

They still haunt me in the waning hours.

More about those foibles another time.

Let’s not spoil the mood of this one!

Instead, sprinkle some confetti generously as you pass—and celebrate!

P.S. By the way, edifices can reinvent themselves also. Coming full circle, Celebrations, once a B & B now a gorgeous extensive gallery and gift shop, will be serving delightful afternoon teas starting November 13, 2010. Returning partially to its identity roots. Somewhat.

I invite you to share a reinvention story of your own!

Hello!

Thanks for visiting. Check back from time to time for news of upcoming happenings. I’d love to hear from you.

ZsuZsa