Posts Tagged "Julia Cameron"
Synchronicity
I was having coffee with a friend the other day when she brought up the subject of “synchronicity.” I can’t remember exactly how it came up, but I was telling her the first time I’d run across the term was while reading The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. In a nutshell, the author explains that synchronicity is one of those curious moments when you say to yourself… wait a minute, whaaa? It’s a coincidence – a happy clash of fate that seems pre-destined, like it was always meant to be. According to Cameron, these synchronous moments demonstrate “the hand of God, or good, activated by our own hand when we act in behalf of our truest dreams, when we commit to our own soul.” Synchronicity is a powerful force, and the trick is to pay attention to it.
So, it’s odd I was having this discussion about synchronicity with this particular friend at that particular time. Here’s why.
Last week, I received a package in the mail from one of my favorite aunts. Inside was a little book called Angel Unaware, written by Dale Evans (yes, THAT Dale Evans, of Roy Rogers fame). There was also a note from my Aunt Carol (a fellow book lover) that said, “I’ve hauled this little book around with me since 1956. I’ve read it and reread it and cried every time. It’s time to pass it on and I know you will enjoy it.”
I opened the book, and on the front cover was an inscription that said “Passed on to Joy Baker with love 9/15/11.”
Angel Unaware, by Dale Evans Rogers
I smiled and leafed through to the Foreword.
This is the story of what a baby girl named Robin Elizabeth accomplished in transforming the lives of the Roy Rogers family. Our baby came into the world with an appalling handicap, as you will discover when you read her story. I believe with all my heart that God sent her on a two-year mission to our household, to strengthen us spiritually and to draw us closer together in the knowledge and love and fellowship of God. It has been said that tragedy and sorrow never leave us where they find us. In this instance, both Roy and I are grateful to God for the privilege of learning some great lessons of truth through His tiny messenger, Robin Elizabeth Rogers.
I recalled that I’d heard of this book before, but didn’t remember reading it. I continued on to the first page.
Oh, Father, it’s good to be home again. I thought sometimes that You had forgotten me, Down There. Two years Up Here doesn’t seem like much, but on earth it can be a long, long time—and it was long, and often hard, for all of us.
Wait a minute… whaaa?
When You lifed me up from the earth, just a few minutes ago, it was Sunday, and my Mommy and Daddy were crying, and everything seemed so dark and sad and confused. And all of a sudden it was bright and clear and happy, and I was in Your arms.
Wait one cotton pickin’ minute… whaaa???
Here’s the thing. In 1999, my good friend LeeAnn (the same one I was having coffee with on Friday) also lost a two year old child. Her name was Emma, and she died from brain cancer. Even more ironic, LeeAnn and Dale Evans were almost exactly the same age at the time their daughters were born.
But still, that’s not the crazy part.
After Emma died, I was really lost… and pretty mad. For the first time in my life, something that I had REALLY REALLY prayed for didn’t work out. Emma died, despite my prayers, despite all our efforts and pleas. She was only two, and her death tore me apart.
I tried to think of something I could do to take some of LeeAnn’s pain away. My friend Betsy suggested I write a book about Emma. So I did… and here’s where things get really… well… SYNCHRONOUS.
I called the book Emma’s Gift and here’s the Foreword:
This book was written in loving memory of Emma Clayton Butcher, a beautiful baby girl who was diagnosed with a highly malignant brain tumor when she was just a year old. Her brave fight lasted only a year, but among her Circle of Friends, Emma left a special gift. A renewed faith in God, in heaven, and the precious gift of friendship.
Here’s the opening paragraph:
There was a bright light. It was a beautiful light… warm and glorious. It filled the room and lifted her up, up, up. There were beautiful voices. Singing. Praising. Comforting. This place was filled with love! And finally, there was peace.
“Father!” the little angel called. “I’m home!”
**Godbumps**
This little book that my aunt had carried around with her since 1956 was almost a direct parallel to the story I wrote to honor Emma over forty years later. We even wrote from the same voice… using first person to describe events from the two year old child’s perspective. (And here, I thought I’d been so clever.)
Inscription
More Godbumps. Emma died on September 10.
Not sure what all this synchronicity is about, but you can bet I’m paying attention. You see, Emma’s Gift was the first book I ever wrote. I sent it off to a Minneapolis publisher and was close to having it published. The whole process made me think, well heck, this writing business is easy.
It turns out, the writing business is not easy. In fact, it has kicked me in the ass for the past decade. But, I’ve learned a lot… about the industry and myself. I’m not sure I’ll ever have the good fortune of having a book published, but I do know this. Writing is who I am… it’s what I love… and I have Emma to thank for getting me started.
So, Emma… if you’re listening, thanks for the gift… again. I think I’ll pop in on your mom again this week. I have a good book I think she’ll enjoy.
Emma’s Gift
This book was written in loving memory of Emma Clayton Butcher, a beautiful baby girl who was diagnosed with a highly malignant brain tumor when she was just a year old. Her brave fight lasted only a year, but among her Circle of Friends, Emma left a special gift. A renewed faith in God, in heaven, and the precious gift of friendship.
There was a bright light. It was a beautiful light… warm and glorious. It filled the room and lifted her up, up, up. There were beautiful voices. Singing. Praising. Comforting. This place was filled with love! And finally, there was peace.
“Father!” the little angel called. “I’m home!”
“Well hello my beautiful child! Come give me a big hug, I’ve missed you!”
The little angel ran to Him and was swept up in His strong and loving arms. “I’ve missed you too, Father!”
“Come sit with me now, tell me of your adventure,” He said.
The little angel sat on his lap, not sure where to begin. “Just start at the beginning,” He said gently, “And don’t leave out a thing.”
“Well,” said the little angel, “my adventure started when I was born. My
mommy named me Emma.”
“Emma…” said her Father. “That’s a beautiful name. Graceful, yet strong. Just like you, little one. Go on.”
The little angel told of being a baby. She tried to explain the feelings of love, and trust, and warmth whenever Emma’s mommy held her in her arms. She described her mommy’s smell, and her voice. She described the special love she felt whenever her mommy would sing songs to her, or rub her tiny back.
Then she described her daddy. Strong and comforting. He made her smile, and she made him laugh. He was a fun daddy, and she loved him very much.
And there were other special people. Her mommy’s friends, who also held her, talked to her, and made her feel loved. There was laughter then, and so, so, so much love.
“But then I got sick,” the little angel said. “My mommy and daddy looked sad and worried. They held me and rocked me, and they loved me like always, but now they cried instead of laughed.”
“How did that make you feel, little one?”
“It made me sad to see them so sad. But they loved me more than ever. Everyone loved me… my mommy, my daddy, and all my special friends.”
The little angel told of her adventures in the hospital. The scary doctors with their needles and tubes. They said nice things, and they smiled at her nicely, but then they would give her owies, and it made her very, very angry. But her mommy would hold her again, sing to her, and rub her back, just like she always did. It would make her stop crying, and it would remind her how lucky she was to have such a wonderful mommy.
But the owies kept coming, and now, when she looked into her mommy’s eyes, she could see such deep sadness. Sometimes it was hard to stay awake, and sometimes she just felt like going home. “Remember when you called for me Father?” asked the little angel. “You told me to come home, but I didn’t want to leave my wonderful mommy. That’s when you told me about the gift.”
Her Father nodded, and said, “Yes of course, go on. Tell me about your gift.”
“You told me to leave a gift for my mommy. Something wonderful, so that she, my daddy, and her friends could look to it and always remember me. But I was so little, and so weak. I didn’t know how to make a gift. I couldn’t cut or paste, or glue or tape. I couldn’t sing, or dance, or write. But then I remembered the greatest gift of all… your love, Father.”
The little angel stopped, and tears came to her eyes. “It’s OK little one, tell me how you gave them your gift.”
“I quit fighting you, Father. It made me sicker, but it brought them all closer to you.”
The angel cried and cried. She told Him how she missed her mommy, and her daddy, and her friends. And oh! How she loved Him! But it didn’t make her miss them any less.
“There, there little one. Don’t be sad, for you have done God’s work, and you have done a wonderful, beautiful job.”
He brought her to the edge of the clouds, and said, “Look there. See? They’re OK. Because they know someday they’ll be here with you. And listen, I can hear them praying! Like they’ve never prayed before. They know me again, and for that, I have you to thank.”
“What are they saying?” asked the little angel. “Do they miss me?”
“Of course they miss you, my dear! They pray and ask me over and over, ‘Why God? Why did you take her after such a short time?”
At this, the little angel laughed. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed. “Poor mommy and daddy,” she said. “What they should be asking is, “Why God? Why have you LEFT us here for such a LONG time?”
He laughed and swung her up in His strong and loving arms. “Now you understand little one! And someday, so will they.”
The little angel hugged her Father, and together, they entered the gates of Heaven.
Copyright 2000 Joy Baker
Read MoreVilla Am Meer, Chapter 15
A few final thoughts…
New here? Start with Chapter 1…
I’ve been writing about Villa Am Meer for about seven months now. In that time, this beach house has become like an old friend to me. I’ve imagined what it would have been like to have stayed there, listening to the waves crash on the shore, sipping a cool glass of Chardonnay at sunset, and snuggling around the wood-burning fireplace after sundown. I’d like to imagine there were no TVs allowed here, and that guests were asked to leave their cell phones at the door. I imagine soft music playing, an acoustic guitar, and dancing on the rooftop patio under the moonlight.
I’ve been told of family Christmases at Villa Am Meer, with delicious Italian food and homemade ravioli. I’ve been told of summertime parties with friends, sangria, brie cheese and strawberries. And, I’ve been told of the “little house” – a one level, two bedroom guest house on the northeast corner of the property. It had a tiny fish pond in front of it, and a wrought iron bridge you had to cross in order to get to the front door. The “real magic” took place here, from what I’ve been told.
As one might imagine, the family is very private. I guess I would be too, especially if some crazy midwestern woman with no earthly connection to the house suddenly started blogging about it. But, I do hope to connect with them one day. I hope that by sharing the history of this house, I haven’t caused them any distress. That was never my intent. Those who know me would tell you I’m not that kind of person.
So then, what WAS my motivation for writing about this house? In the past seven months, I’ve been asked this over and over, and the answer is both simple and complicated.
I guess it all boils down to this… it got me writing again. I’ve always loved writing, and it seems to come naturally to me. However, a few years ago, I became hell-bent on writing something in order to get it published. I wrote a few children’s books, a middle-grade novel, a screenplay, and even a corporate gift book. Nothing was published. This didn’t surprise me; I knew the odds. But, I have to admit, it was hard on my ego. I wasn’t used to failure.
So, I quit writing. I decided if I couldn’t make my living as a writer, then what was the point. I went back to what I knew and saved myself the heartache.
For two years, I wrote nothing at all. I turned 40, took up snowboarding, and became obsessed with tracking down every branch of my family tree. When I ran out of branches on my own tree, I started tracking down my husband’s branches. Anything to keep from writing.
Then, last March, I was walking along the beach with my husband, on our way to The Colony to have a margarita. I spotted my favorite little beach house amidst a rumble of big rig construction. It appeared war-torn and vacant, and I was certain it was about to be torn down. I ran back to our condo and grabbed my camera, determined to preserve this little nugget of Longboat Key history. I knew nothing about the property or its owners, but for 15 years that little beach cottage had piqued my curiosity, and since it appeared to be on its final death throes, I decided to ask a few questions. And that’s how this whole journey started.
But, truthfully, why did I keep on? (And on, and on?)
Well, I guess because it just felt good. It felt good to be writing again, and I loved the instant feedback that blogging provided. People were commenting on my posts, adding to the story, encouraging me to go on. And so… go on I did.
There was also that moment, while I was on vacation in Montana, when I first learned of Elena’s death. The news hit me hard, and the synchronicity of that event seemed absolutely uncanny. At that point, the story seemed to take on new meaning… like it was bigger than me and just ached to be told. I can’t explain it really… it just seemed like continuing the story was the right thing to do.
One final thing.
On August 1, I began reading The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. Ironically, I’d given this same book to an artist friend of mine a few years ago, never assuming it would ever apply to me. I was a writer after all, not an artist.
I was wrong.
The Artist’s Way has changed the way I look at the world. I’ve now realized that the reason I kept on writing about Villa Am Meer is because I was finally writing for the right reasons… not to gain fame, wealth, or success… but simply to enjoy the process. “Creativity is God’s gift to us,” Julia Cameron writes. “Using our creativity is our gift back to God.” The refusal to be creative is counter to our true nature.
I must admit, I’ve been lost for a while, manically trying to busy myself with other pastimes while my one true passion has been stuffed inside a storage locker made of gray matter. And now, I feel like Simba, staring into the water and hearing the reflection of Mufasa telling me, “You are more than what you’ve become, Simba.” Yes, Mufasa, you’re right. I am more than what I’ve become.
And so, starting January 1, my business partner and I have decided to take a two month sabbatical to “be still.” For twenty years, we’ve run a small ad agency together… a company we started just out of college. It’s been a crazy ride… turbulent, exhilarating, and often scary. But through it all, we’ve grown up together, raised our families, and remained best friends. And after twenty years, we’ve decided the best gift we could give each other is two months off. Imagine it… two months of peace and art. Groovy, baby.
I do hope to continue writing about Villa Am Meer, if any new information should trickle in. In the meantime, feel free to follow me on my journey. (UPDATE: Skip ahead to Chapter 16 to learn the outcome of Hermann Kohl’s and Norda, Inc.’s bootlegging trial… click here.)
Next time… a new story piques my interest…
Read MoreAbout Me
Join me in my sporadic ramblings as I embrace the curious life. Wife of a turkey farmer. Mother of two teenage boys. Avid ponderer. Treasure seeker. Curator of the written word. I enjoy sparking interest in the mundane and uncovering a compelling backstory.
