Miss the story. Miss your life.

by Kayce Stevens Hughlett

“If you miss the story, you miss your life.” Phil Cousineau

The worn and folded manuscript rests beneath my left elbow, sticky notes and paper clips separating it into segments of I know not what. Have I missed the story? Is it forgotten because I’ve put the pages aside for so long? Has my memory been washed clean by the raindrops that fall outside my window or did it take flight on the wings of the crow soaring above the dingy brown evergreen?

Always we begin again … until we don’t. But here I am again, once more at the page with candles lit and soft music playing, praying for the muse to show up.

A five-year gap stares at me. How did I get from Mexico in 2003 to Paris 2008? I want to jettison those years. The ones that held back and forth trips to Kino Bay… ah, there it is… my memory. Fifteen months in that magical land where beach met desert then rolled into mountains. The place where pelicans spoke to me of hope as they made their suicide dives into the sea yet always rose back to the sky. How could I forget those years? They were pivotal for my journey. In many ways, they were the beginning. We thought we were sending our son there to heal, but it was I who came away transformed.

“How long have you been writing?” I can still hear her voice as if it was yesterday. “I don’t write,” came my reply.

The leader of our parent’s class on co-dependency invited us to find a quiet place to practice step number 11. Meditation. Meditate on command? Are you kidding me? The voice inside my head shouted at the kind man with a rim of reddish brown hair circling his balding crown. Being the good girl that I was, however, I picked up my pad of paper and headed outside into the warm Sonoran air.

© bill hughlett @ h3 imagesToo far from the beach, which would have been my preference, I chose a place next to the rectangular swimming pool and settled in. I’d never meditated before and wondered how it might be like prayer. Actually, I wondered if it might be acting against the laws of prayer as I knew them. My conservative Judeo-Christian upbringing was firmly implanted and fear was a major patriarch in my life. What if this was against God’s plan? What if lightening struck? What if?

Our teacher, Wally, gave us simple instructions: Be still and see what arises. Take notes if you like. It sounded harmless enough.

Beside the pool I closed my eyes, settled back against a concrete pillar, and let my legs stretch out in front of me. I took one deep breath and then another. My shoulders relaxed and my bones warmed in the sunlight. It may have been the first time I’d relaxed in weeks. I felt like a cat curling up for a nap until the words began to flow with a force I’d never before experienced.

Follow your dreams.

Figure out what they are.

Do them with Bill.

Seek guidance from a friend.

Follow me.

Quiet your heart. Be still.

Tune them out.

Hear the birds.

Be still my soul.

Stay in touch.

Love your son. Love him well. Forgive him.

Relax. Feel the breeze. Feel the moment.

Pray.

Do the work.

Feel the wind. The wind blows hard. The wind is blowing our family in a new direction. Guide the sails through me.

Forget about Seattle. Seize the day.

Step out of your comfort zone. Forget about comfort. You are still young.

Save the children. You have a gift.

Let them encourage you. God, I’m scared! I will be with you.

Be still and listen.

You’re not co-dependent. You are an encourager. It is your spiritual gift.

Help the families with your gift.

And then my pen ran out of ink, but not before one last whisper.

It’s o.k. You can stop now. This is only the beginning.

Shortly after I returned home from the parents’ weekend in Kino Bay, I received a gift in the mail – a slightly worn copy of Julia Cameron’s “The Artist’s Way.” I devoured it like the sky swallowing sounds of church bells. It was pure magic.

Why oh why do I doubt there is magic in this world? When did I forget to trust my own voice? The still small one that has always been there. I heard it in the wind and saw it in the sky. But the naysayers said, “Don’t listen,” and I let their voices be the loudest.

This is a story about magic, about listening, and learning to trust. I’m still learning. I did it just now. My mind tried to tell me that I’d lost the story. My heart said, “Start writing” and the story made its way back to me. If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is. 

Are you afraid of missing your story? I invite you to take a few moments and reconnect. You can use my trick: pull out your journal, set a timer, and start to write. Begin with here and now or then and there. What do you see, feel, taste, touch, or hear? 

Not a journaler? Take a walk outside. Feel your feet on the ground and begin to notice your surroundings in detail. THIS is your story!!

I'm writing a new book (see above excerpt)! In the meantime, I hope you'll take a peek at BLUE: a novel and As I Lay Pondering: daily invitations to live a transformed life.