A few days after my friend Bette arrived from Texas for a three week visit, we boarded a train to Krakow from the Keleti Train Station in Budapest. The station, built in 1881, and considered the most lavish station in Europe at the time, is still beautiful today. How novel, I thought—a slumber party aboard a sleeper train, and we’ll arrive first thing in the morning, fresh and ready to explore the city and its ... [+]]]> For however long I am meant to reside here in Budapest, Hungary, a post-Communist city with an incredible history, I feel compelled to explore both its past and present. I’d like to share some of my experiences with you, if you care to follow along. But first, I’ll start with a trip outside the city—my journey to the Auschwitz-Birkenau death camp near Krakow, Poland:

A few days after my friend Bette arrived from Texas for a three week visit, we boarded a train to Krakow from the Keleti Train Station in Budapest. The station, built in 1881, and considered the most lavish station in Europe at the time, is still beautiful today. How novel, I thought—a slumber party aboard a sleeper train, and we’ll arrive first thing in the morning, fresh and ready to explore the city and its surroundings.

I should have known the train’s compartments would be less than anticipated when I spied small Cyrillic lettering on the corners of the cars indicating they were Russian made—aha, Communist era. I was right. Not those lovely beds across from one another you see in the movies, but narrow bunks stacked in a cramped compartment barely large enough for one.

I got the top bunk.

Near dusk, and about an hour outside of Budapest, a sweet scent of roses enveloped us. Bushes laden with lush, powdery-pink blooms appeared for miles beside the tracks, so thick it seemed as though delicate, tinted clouds had fallen from the sky. I have never seen such a sight. We closed our eyes and breathed in the intoxicating perfume that swept through the train, feeling as though we floated on a fragrance created exclusively for us.

Then a jarring thought gripped me: My God, we’re riding the very rails that carried Jews, Gypsies, and political prisoners to Auschwitz and Birkenau! Hundreds of thousands of innocents on their way to their deaths. Hundreds of people packed in each car—women, men and children cramped so tightly together they were forced to stand the entire trip with no food, water or toilets. Even the dead and dying could not fall in the crush. Suddenly, the small compartment we occupied didn’t seem so cramped.

And what of the roses? Had these fragrant flowers lined the tracks back then? After all, wild roses can regenerate for decades. I choked back tears, and turned to Bette whose countenance told me she held similar thoughts.

“Do we really want to visit Auschwitz?” I asked her.

We grew silent for a long while as we gazed at the blur of pink, and breathed a scent no longer light and sweet, but suddenly heavy and funereal. Then, strange as it may seem, we came to the conclusion that we wanted to honor those who traveled these tracks before us by remaining focused on their plight during our train ride, and commit to visiting the camps upon our arrival. What would our decision produce? Would it heal any lost souls? Would it heal us? We didn’t know, but we felt fractured, scarred by the past, and compelled to see our journey through to the end.

Eventually, we left the roses behind and we traveled for a long while beside a lovely river. We didn’t know which river, but the countryside was beautiful, bucolic. I wondered: The farmers who lived alongside this lazy river back then, the people in these tiny villages, did they know what horrors the trains carried?

Had anyone realized they were death trains?

Had anyone ever wandered close enough to the tracks to hear any wailings?

Had there been any cries to even be heard by that stage of the journey? After all, the trains were nothing more than windowless cattle cars, their doors nailed shut once the people were packed inside, and the only light to be had was what seeped through cracks in the boards.

Dear God, how could this have happened?

While Bette did fairly well with sleeping in her little bunk, I slept fitfully. I awoke once feeling disoriented. For a moment, as the clickety-clack of wheels against rails filled my ears, I didn’t know if I was on a train some sixty six years ago or now. I felt like a dark-haired teenager, confused and wondering where we were going, and what and why everything was happening. It was almost as though I had inculcated a miasmic memory that still hovered above the tracks. I came fully awake feeling desolate. I could barely breathe. I curled up on the other end of the bed, next to the window, and gulped in fresh air until my racing heart found some semblance of normalcy.

But my mind refused to wander elsewhere.

Hundreds of thousands of people rode these very rails to their deaths. What were they thinking? How were they feeling? A great sob welled up in my chest, one that wouldn’t release—at least not yet.

Had the guards and engineers aboard those trains known what was happening? Had they known these people were to be worked until they dropped or gassed within hours of arrival if they were too old, too young or infirm? Did they know that any twins or ‘little people’ aboard would be used for hideous experiments by the death camp’s macabre Dr. Josef Mengele, ironically known as The Angel of Death? Or were these people kept naive, only informed of their job and saw nothing beyond where the train stopped? I would tend to think so, since it would have compromised the Nazi program of creating an Aryan society of healthy blue-eyed blonds had word leaked out of what they were up to (I find it interesting that Hitler intended to create a blue-eyed, blond-haired Aryan society when he himself had brown hair and brown eyes and his mother was part Jewish).

Suddenly, I had a deep sense that for whatever reason, I was meant to ride this train, and I was meant to have these experiences. That I was meant to know and understand what the Hungarians have suffered through (Hungarian Jews comprised the greatest number sent to Auschwitz, but don’t forget the Gypsies and political prisoners—nuns, priests, businessmen, housewives—any Hungarian labeled a spy became a political prisoner to be gotten rid of). Somehow, I knew all of this was tied to my healing process with regard to the loss of my big-hearted German husband.

(Tomorrow: My visit to Auschwitz and the Terror Museum in Budapest)

What about you? Have you had any similar experiences or awakenings?

Last summer (2010), I had been living along the beautiful Adriatic Sea and enjoying the heck out of my life. In June, I returned to the U.S. to visit friends and relatives, and to conduct seminars. Topping off my trip was attending the RWA National Conference in Orlando, Florida.

I flew back home via Frankfurt, where my German husband was to meet me, driving up from Croatia. A long trip, but we planned to stay overnight in Stuttgart where his family lived.

When I landed in ... [+]]]> I’ve been absent from blogging for awhile, so this is going to be a bit lengthy while I explain my whereabouts this past year. Some of you know why I have been missing in action, and some don’t. For those who are aware, please bear with me, and then we’ll get on with life.

Last summer (2010), I had been living along the beautiful Adriatic Sea and enjoying the heck out of my life. In June, I returned to the U.S. to visit friends and relatives, and to conduct seminars. Topping off my trip was attending the RWA National Conference in Orlando, Florida.

I flew back home via Frankfurt, where my German husband was to meet me, driving up from Croatia. A long trip, but we planned to stay overnight in Stuttgart where his family lived.

When I landed in Frankfurt, there was no sign of Hans. Here was a man who was never late for anything. When his sister and her husband rushed into the airport, I knew something was terribly wrong. They made me sit down before they told me that Hans was in the hospital in Salzburg, Austria following a car accident on the autobahn. I could sense there was more, but at that point, I couldn’t even speak. They went on to tell me that a CT scan had been performed to determine the extent of my husband’s injuries, and the doctors found advanced stage four cancer throughout Hans’s body. What? This strapping 6’4” athletic, tanned and toned Adonis who swam two kilometers a day and walked five was near death? He was too young.

This couldn’t be.

It was.

Two months later, he was gone, and I was left alone in Hungary, an unfamiliar country, while I faced a corrupt Croatian government who promptly declared that we hadn’t filled out three invoices properly so they would seize my property (I kid you not…this for later). That’s how I found myself alone in Budapest where Hans was treated at the famous Semmelweis Hospital and spent his last days in a hospice in the Buda hills. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Semmelweis_University

Numb, I went about the incredibly difficult task of preparing a funeral in a country that still operates business using the old and awkward Communist era methods (I now have Hans’ death certificate in five languages). Compounding the problem is the language barrier. The Hungarian language is considered the second most difficult language in the world (next to the many layers of Japanese), and 74.5% of the citizens do not speak English. During this awful time, I remembered others who’d lost loved ones and how they were given professional advice to refrain from making any changes for a year. Odd as it sounds, my instincts told me that I had to commit to spending a year in Budapest.  Wow!

Here I was in a strange country, unable to speak the language, and without direction. But little miracles have occurred in my life, and the year has passed amazingly fast. I don’t know how long I will remain here—at least until the Croatian legalities are cleared up—but if I had to be stuck in any city, lovely Budapest, with its remarkable history, is the one to be caught in.

What beauty.

What history.

What ease of mobility (the best public transportation facilities in the world).

What lovely people who have come forward to help me along my difficult journey. (Thank you Elemer for scrambling to obtain a five year visa for me!)

Budapest is the most romantic city I have ever lived in. Heck, right at the end of my street is the city park, complete with a lake, zoo, a lovely fairy tale castle (pictured), and the famous Szechenyi Baths that I dip into every chance I get: http://www.budapestgyogyfurdoi.hu/hu/szechenyi/virtualis_seta

I’ve made friends here, cried and laughed here. I am not through grieving, and I cannot yet bring myself to change the “About Me” page on this website because it is the last vestige of a lovely life that once was (I have set a goal to change it on October 5^th, the one year mark of my husband’s passing).

From the beginning of this unexpected journey, I knew that I would hold onto the idea that happiness and joy are mine to be had, but it is entirely up to me to allow these passions to exist in my life.

And so I keep on.

I journaled my way through Hans’ illness and passing, and in January, I began to write fiction again. It wasn’t easy, but on August third, I completed a Victorian romance. At eleven PM, I wrote, “The End.” I sighed and looked up to the ceiling, as if to the heavens, and with tears running down my cheeks said, “There you go, Hans. I did it. You’d be so proud.”

 Then, I happened to glance at the date. OMG! August 3^rd, exactly one year to the day that I stepped off the plane in Frankfurt—the day my life turned upside down. I don’t think it was any accident that I finished writing my story on that particular date. No matter how hard I pushed toward my earlier goal of completion, it wasn’t happening, but that morning, it was like a fire was lit under me and there I was…at the end.

Shortly thereafter, I had to travel back to Croatia on legal business—my fourth harrowing trip. I find it difficult to be there any more, where every step I take is a reminder of Hans and of our fifteen-year ‘honeymoon’ existence. I caught a ride down, but took to the rails on the way back. The trip is lovely by train, the countryside peaceful, with small villages appearing every now and then that seem lost in time. I had a private compartment to myself most of the way—the kind you see in the movies. As I traveled along, I suddenly realized that I was returning exactly one year to the day that I drove Hans to Budapest, never to return. I don’t think that was any accident, either. A lot of tears fell after my realization.

Hans’ sister died eleven days after he passed, both from the same illness. In less than eighteen months from losing them, I lost a total of five family members on both sides. I’ll never be the same again, but I say this with hope and with something burning deep inside of me: I’ll have a good life…a life as I choose to make it.

Thank heavens, I don’t feel sorry for myself. On the contrary. I feel blessed to have had the time I did with Hans, and that our time together was as good as it was. But now, without choosing this path, I find myself in another chapter of my life. I have opened my arms to healing in whatever way I was meant to, and as I walk around this city, I am often amazed that I, a little girl from Staples, Minnesota, grew up to one day be plunked down in Budapest, Hungary, a place filled with so much beauty, but also filled with so much tragic history it is mind boggling that the Hungarians managed to survive.

I used to teach in my seminars that if you wanted to shake up your ego, move some place where you don’t know anyone. But if you really want to give the old ego a complete twist, try moving to where you don’t even speak the language. Ha! How about that? Two post-Communist countries under my belt, and with two entirely different languages. I guess I was talking to myself all those years.

Let’s see, I met Hans, a German, in a riding stable in Texas (riding English saddle, not western), got married in a castle in Scotland, moved to New York where I ran a well-being center; moved on to Croatia where we played in the sea, and ended up in Hungary, alone and with my roots still in Texas. Is there any hint of a memoir in here? She laughs. I have titled it “Living and Dying in Budapest.”

Despite what I have been through, I look for joy in simple, everyday occurrences, including feeding the little ducks that swim about in the water surrounding the castle in the park. I swear they recognize me because they don’t swim to other people crossing the little footbridge behind the castle, but when I walk up, here they come! Makes my heart sing. I have immersed myself in this city, in the people, culture, even the incredible architecture (there is something very healing and soothing about buildings to me).

So, there you have it, a mini tour of my world this past year. I hope you’ll check in with me as I share my Budapest experiences and my writer’s life (I just found out there is an American writer moving into the apartment next door. He’s due to arrive in less than a month, can hardly wait to chat).

I have lots to share with you if you care to revisit.

What about you? Can you name a single defining moment when your life suddenly changed? I would dearly love to hear from you. In the meantime, enjoy my favorite musical tour of Budapest:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqwFvU5vBrA

The girl was discovered at age thirteen by her junior high school teacher when he gave the students easels and oil paints, put some music on, and told them to let go and see what came of it. When he came around to this prodigy’s easel and looked at her magnificent painting, one of a mother and daughter in quiet repose, he gulped and said, “Oh, my, have you worked with oils before?”

“No,” she answered.

 “I…I think we need to speak with your parents.”

Oprah queried the young woman, asking her if she had shown any prior signs of this mystical gift. Had she always had ... [+]]]> Oprah occasionally features child prodigies on her show. One of these special children was a sixteen-year-old girl who oil paints—in three entirely different styles. She has been called a modern day Monet and her paintings sell for $15,000+ apiece (probably a whole lot more after Oprah’s show).

The girl was discovered at age thirteen by her junior high school teacher when he gave the students easels and oil paints, put some music on, and told them to let go and see what came of it. When he came around to this prodigy’s easel and looked at her magnificent painting, one of a mother and daughter in quiet repose, he gulped and said, “Oh, my, have you worked with oils before?”

“No,” she answered.

 “I…I think we need to speak with your parents.”

Oprah queried the young woman, asking her if she had shown any prior signs of this mystical gift. Had she always had a drive to paint? Was she always doodling or sketching?

“No,” the girl shook her head to all of Oprah’s questions. “Nothing.”

Oprah suddenly sat up straighter, as though an emotion had just shot through her. She grinned wide. “Well, did you color outside the lines?”

I laughed out loud. That was me as a child—always coloring outside the lines. I don’t remember the rest of the television show because I got lost in Oprah’s comment.

I detested coloring inside the lines or sticking to “normal” colors for things. The other kids berated me, told me a horse couldn’t be purple, that I was an idiot for coloring a swan green with a red head. And oh, the teacher. She was forever scratching that ugly red minus in the top right corner of my coloring book, for straying outside the lines. And those little buggers who had criticized me would smugly wave their coloring books at me with their precise work along with their shiny gold stars to prove it. I was only six-years-old and already, I felt like an utter failure.

One day, I finally managed to achieve the gold star. But try as I might, when I stayed within the lines and only used colors for the horse and swan that everyone else used, my teeth would clench and irritation flowed through me like hot soup. In the end,  I’d grow surly. I still felt like a failure, for now I didn’t enjoy what I was doing. Not at all. I decided something must be wrong with me because secretly, I still loved the purple horse with its munificent hump scribbled outside the lines.

I suffered that gold star in silence.

Gathering pussy willows on crisp Minnesota mornings was more to my liking, as well. One by one, I’d painstakingly glue them onto construction paper in any form of a bunny or horse I chose, using that awesome white school paste that smelled—and tasted—divine. I was in heaven. And then there were those colorful hollyhocks that grew wild against worn fences. The frothy pink bells of their flowers, stuck together with toothpicks, became fabulous ball gowns adorning my Civil War-era ladies who waited breathlessly for that young officer and a gentleman to ask for the next dance.

On my own, I found my place outside the lines.

When my son began to color,  I noticed he couldn’t seem to stay within the lines either. Diagnosed hyperactive and with learning differences, I let him color at home any which way he wanted, as long as he was happy with what he was doing. I’d learned from my own experience to put music on as a backdrop for him. Soon, I began to notice that the better the ‘fit’ of the music to his mood, the more bold grew his colors, and the further outside the lines he went. One day I saw him working on a purple horse.

“Nice horse,” I said.

“Yeah, Mom. It’s a magical horse. It can fly to the music and at night it flies around my room and into my dreams.” His face glowed with the rush of success.

He’s an adult now. Writes beautiful poetry, something I can’t seem to “catch” in the rhythm of my own flying purple dreams. My son’s gift, unique to him, began to emerge when he was in the sixth grade, just a few years after I taught him to journal and to write his garbled feelings down, something I had learned to do as an adult. I came to realize much later that my helping him to get in touch with his inner self was a precursor to my life’s work, a key in helping people tap into their strengths, gifts and creativity.

“Get the troublesome things out of you and onto paper,” I would tell him. “Underneath the negative, you will always find beauty.”

I never dreamed that teaching him to find his spirit would cause such creativity to pour forth. He is now a sound engineer, writes music and poetry, and teaches English to Hungarians in Budapest using creative techniques that brings students in asking for him in particular. Here was a kind of creativity that hadn’t so much as glimmered on the surface back then; his talents that emerged were such a dichotomy to his learning differences. I never imagined when he began journaling that he would end up writing poetry so poignant it would take my breath away. Or that he would one day stand by the ocean’s edge and play a tune on his saxophone so haunting that when the melody rode in on a gentle breeze through the window it would bring me to tears. I just kept playing music while he journaled, taught him to meditate in order to relax and let go,  made pictures out of clouds scudding across the sky. Whatever it took to help him get in touch with his inner self, to find his true spirit, was my goal, because I’d learned that within our spirit lies our genius.

I helped him to color outside the lines.

What about you? Did you color outside the lines? Did you always want to write or was there a moment when you discovered you could? I’d love for you to leave a comment. I’ll choose two people at random to win a meditation CD ($20 value). The first track teaches you a gentle meditation technique and the second track is the guided meditation that helps you to relax and bring forth creativity. As a certified hypnotherapist, I wrote and produced Relax and Meditate. It is used by everyone from children to fighter pilots heading overseas. Thanks for stopping by.

RESIPE FOR WARSHING CLOTHES

Build fire in backyard to heat kettle of rain water. Set tubs so smoke wont blow in eyes if wind is pert. Shave one hole cake of lie soap in boilin water.

Sort things, make 3 piles

1 pile white,

1 pile colored,

1 pile work britches and rags.

To make starch, stir flour in cool water to smooth, then thin down with boiling water.

Take white things, rub dirty spots on board, scrub hard, and boil, then rub colored don’t boil just wrench and starch.

Take things out of kettle with broom stick handle, then wrench, and starch. 

Hang old rags on fence.

Spread tea towels on grass.

Pore wrench water in flower bed. ... [+]]]>
Years ago an Alabama grandmother gave the new bride the following recipe. This is an exact copy as written and found in an old scrapbook, complete with spelling errors (For you non-southerners, wrench means, rinse)

RESIPE FOR WARSHING CLOTHES

Build fire in backyard to heat kettle of rain water. Set tubs so smoke wont blow in eyes if wind is pert. Shave one hole cake of lie soap in boilin water.

Sort things, make 3 piles

1 pile white,

1 pile colored,

1 pile work britches and rags.

To make starch, stir flour in cool water to smooth, then thin down with boiling water.

Take white things, rub dirty spots on board, scrub hard, and boil, then rub colored don’t boil just wrench and starch.

Take things out of kettle with broom stick handle, then wrench, and starch. 

Hang old rags on fence.

Spread tea towels on grass.

Pore wrench water in flower bed. Scrub porch with hot soapy water.

Turn tubs upside down.

Go put on clean dress, smooth hair with hair combs. Brew cup of tea, sit and rock a spell and count your blessings.

================================================

I remember my grandmother used a hand wrung wringer washer with a galvanized tub like in the photo above. She was of a different generation, and no matter how many times my father and uncle offered to take on the task, she refused to have indoor plumbing installed (which is why I didn’t like staying overnight in the cold Minnesota winters—that trek to the outhouse before bed was bad enough in the summer). She did have a clothes line out behind the house though, no tea towels drying on the grass!

What about you, do you have any memories of “the old days”, or do you have any old diaries or recipes for cleaning and laundry? Leave a comment, I’d love to hear from you.

Recently, I had to have a particular medical procedure that made me feel threatened. What ... [+]]]> Some of you may make a habit of dialoguing with your characters before you begin to write a novel. Others may not have heard of the idea. I have done a form of this for years, but never applied it to characters in my novel until I began reading a few blogs where the actual hero or heroine were interviewed. What I great idea, I thought, so I applied it to two characters I thought I knew from the inside out. Turns out I didn’t know the heroine as well as the hero. After I had a chat with her, I went back and fleshed her out with the ease of writing about someone I had known a lifetime (but then, perhaps she has been a seed inside my soul my entire life, waiting to sprout).

Recently, I had to have a particular medical procedure that made me feel threatened. What could I do to get myself through this without having a meltdown in the middle of it? Well, talking to the heroine in my new WIP did the trick.

Here I was, on a table in a medical center in a foreign country, while my heart and soul were elsewhere. In my mind, I was in a lush green meadow carpeted with a thick layer of bluebells and sitting under a blossoming wild cherry tree. When a gust of wind blew, white blossoms rained around me like scented snow. Sarah (my character) and I leaned our backs against the tree and chatted. She told me what it was like—really like—to be caught in the terrible predicament she was in, and how she was changing as a result. Next thing I knew, the practitioner said in her broken English. “All done.”

I opened my eyes, looked into her smiling face and at the clock over her shoulder. I could not believe the time that had passed or that the procedure had entirely escaped my conscious state! Mind you, I am a certified hypnotherapist and have for years taught meditation, but when I tried to do both of these things with fear running through me like water from a faucet with no shut-off valve, I couldn’t remain focused. But under the cherry tree, blossoms in our hair and sheep in the meadow, I was living in nonlinear time in 1850′s England—Kent to be exact, with the farthest thing from my mind being laid out in a large medical center.

Today, I will rest by the therapy pool after physical therapy and dialogue with my hero—Augustus Malvern, Lord Eastleigh. I want to know—from the deepest part of his heart—what things were like for him during the Crimean War. Perhaps it will help him remember the one thing that keeps him from living life to the fullest.

What about you? Do you dialogue with your characters? Have you had any similar, surprising results? Please leave a comment, I would love to hear from you.

Below is an excerpt from my first conversation with a character, Mary Katherine. It is the first night over dinner with Wolf who sits across from her chatting with the ship’s captain and her parents. I did not stop to think or rationalize. I simply wrote as quickly as she spoke and did no editing other than to hit spell check.

“Tell me about yourself, Mary Katherine. Maybe start with some recollection as a child.”

“I suppose I was always aware that there was something different about my parents. I trusted Old Chinese, my mentor, to raise me, but not my parents (and please don’t call me on his name. It is what he chooses to be called and there is a reason). I prefer his logic and his integrity and morals. In fact, I need and desire his integrity and morals. I relate to him more than to my parents. I remember his hands…so strong and powerful, but so safe when I slipped my hand into his when I was a little girl. In some ways that hand still holds mine.

Mother is terribly emotional and undisciplined. She is impatient and impetuous. Unfortunately, I have inherited that tendency and it is what I use my self-discipline against. Father has more discipline since he studied under Old Chinese, but he lacks the character and integrity that are a vital part of the old man’s teachings.

I knew from a very young age, I don’t know how I knew, but I did, that I was not to speak of what my mentor taught me. I also knew from a very young age that I was being groomed to take over his work. I didn’t know fully what his work was until he chose to reveal it. I never questioned why my mother and father trusted a man alone with me until after you wrote the book. Thank you.

For whatever reason, my thoughts never strayed to men and the emotional/physical nature, even though I was secretly surrounded by them. Wouldn’t mother have had a fit, had she known?

My job, my goal is one of securing the future of the farm. I must somehow convince my father…well, my parents, to let me have the farm and live up there.

However, now there is a fly in the ointment. My parents, despite their wealth, have not been accepted into Boston’s upper crust. Jonathan came forward and asked for my hand. It was promptly accepted by my parents and I cannot easily renounce it without throwing some kind of suspicion on me that I am up to something else. He is everything I despise in my parents’ world. I must have a life that will allow me some freedom. This is a terrible problem, because you see, I am their ticket, their only ticket into society…they have tried all else.

And now there is Wolf. Oh, I saw him years ago when he walked into the hotel all scruffy, and something shot right through me. It wasn’t a sexual thing then…it was, I don’t know…a power in him…perhaps a destiny…an inner knowing…I just knew he would be right for the farm. That feeling I got when I saw him, I carried it right through to now. I wanted a man like that.

And now here he is, on the ship, sitting right across from me and I see him as perfect for what I need a man for, but I also see something else. He does something to me. I want to climb right over the table and lick the side of his face—to taste him. I want to crush my mouth to his and draw from him something, I don’t know what… into my soul.

He is the one. He must be.

It wasn’t ... [+]]]>

I am having a freaky couple of days. I am working on my large piece for the exhibition. Although it is going pretty well, I am having a stream of mini panic attacks, anxious moments and a strange restlessness. My confidence is seesawing beyond belief…is this what ‘suffering’ for your art means!!!! I am completely out of my comfort zone with it and it is driving me bonkers. I am totally aware of the causes, but cannot stop the effects!!! Hear a large scream.

Here is what I wrote back to her:

OK, all artists/authors experience this from time to time. Here’s my prescription for what you are going through.

Everything has its opposite. For day there is night, for black there is white. Did you know that insecurity is the opposite of ... [+]]]> An artist friend who is about to give birth to a huge one woman art exhibit emailed me with the following:

I am having a freaky couple of days. I am working on my large piece for the exhibition. Although it is going pretty well, I am having a stream of mini panic attacks, anxious moments and a strange restlessness. My confidence is seesawing beyond belief…is this what ‘suffering’ for your art means!!!! I am completely out of my comfort zone with it and it is driving me bonkers. I am totally aware of the causes, but cannot stop the effects!!! Hear a large scream.

Here is what I wrote back to her:

OK, all artists/authors experience this from time to time. Here’s my prescription for what you are going through.

Everything has its opposite. For day there is night, for black there is white. Did you know that insecurity is the opposite of creativity? Ah, no wonder you are flipping from one to the other. Here’s what to do: Stop trying to create for the moment. Sit down with a pen and paper and at the top of the page write the following words: Who, What, How, When, Where.  Now under the word ‘How’, write how you feel. Next, go through all five of these words. List under the word ‘What’…what would happen if you failed, succeeded, etc. Under ‘Who’, write down who is involved in your project (you may be amazed at who might be in the fringes you are afraid of letting down) and so on with each word.

When you are finished, let it sit. Have a cup of tea and go for a walk. Come back and on another piece of paper find the opposite of any negative you wrote on the other paper. Then form a positive affirmation (as though it has already happened) and start chanting the affirmation in your mind every time you start to feel insecure.

This works. I have used this method for years.