Here is one of the great reviews my book has gotten. Please visit amazon.com and read more. If you can order a copy or make a donation to the website, that would greatly help me stay in the writing business. I have to pay publication costs and for the maintenance of the site. Do a good deed. Help a writer today…it will be much appreciated. And talk the book up online if you have read it and liked it. Send me an email!

“I read Vicki’s book a couple of days ago – and I’m still thinking about it. It’s the sort of book that will stay with this reader for a long time. Vicki writes from the naked, beating heart of it all – and her honesty, fierce intelligence and humour combine with an absolute refusal to paper over the cracks. Life’s fullness – it’s harshness, its tenderness, its raw vibrancy – all are here. And resolutely embraced, even when it hurt. If you want to know what a warrior spirit is like, meet one in these pages. Highly recommended.” H. C. Starke

God came to me and said, “Vicki, I’m gonna pull out all the stops. I know you bore up under the loss of your daughter, but it’s been over twenty years now, and well, it’s time I called Bob home.”

I wanted to bust His Chops. I really did. I was no Job.

“Why on Your Green Earth would you put me through the eye of the needle AGAIN?”

God was silent. But when I turned around Bob was gone.

I was alone in a world where it seemed I would have to do everything myself. I would have no one lying next to me in bed at night. Would have no Christmas gifts from him under the tree. It was pretty frickin’ sad.

I didn’t turn against God. I began to work very, very hard. There was lots to do. Clean the basement. Sell his tools and car. Give his clothes away.

I cried but I learned from my daughter’s death that a deep, deep loss did not have to find me going off the deep end. I could float. And so I floated through many a long wintry day. I floated through Easter and summer and long hours of solitude.

And then I began to write. And I wrote and wrote and wrote. And the more I wrote, the more I could float.

Float above the question “Why?” Float above the slow ticking of the clock. And float above the knowledge that my life would never be the same.

I am a survivor. Don’t approach me with your theories of how God works. I know how He works. In mysterious ways.

Don’t offer me any plastic sympathy; I am stronger than that.

Just be there in your own authentic way.

However that manifests.

Let the complications go.

Let the words go.

Be silent and look within your very own heart.

I did and one day I understood that we are all on our way home.

From birth we have been going home. Some just stick around longer than others.

I got up this morning knowing I was the dispassionate observer. Synchronistically, John Evans says this in the September issue of Writing and Wellness newsletter:

“Lately I’ve been thinking that if you want to write honestly, you must become an outcast or an exile or at an observer’s remove. As a writer there are at least two of you; one before you became a writer and the one you become after. As a person, you are the passionate participant. As a writer, you are an astute observer, but loyalties to the stories of friends and family are secondary considerations to writing your own story. This is not to say that the right attitude is “@#$% ya’ll, all-a-yah-all,” but it is to say that your story is not about them; it’s about you and all your story!”

And so I come here, day after day, observing Vicki’s life and mingling with her humanity and foibles and honest-to-God aloneness. I will say one thing about her. She was born honest. She erected a facade, as does everyone, but she knows it for what it is and sees through the facades of others easily. But she still falls down into reactionary chakras while I look on her with unconditional love.

She has left online communities where she has to suffer the slings and arrows of ill-mannered people, but she knows who her friends are and needs their support.

A Poem For Friends

I likes to write notes and poetry and funny stuff in equal measure.
I crack my knuckles and shake out the stress from my fingers
before hitting the mean streets of the internet.

I jump rope to warm up my heart
and play hop scotch from Friend to Friend.

I always hope they are using my words to
wake up to the beauty of who they are
even when they can barely crawl out of bed
and feel the slime of their own self-reproach.

I dance among the alphabet, picking out the
x’s and z’s because they are harder to digest than
the simple a’s and o’s.

I crack wise like I crack my knuckles, just to
see if I still can play the harp like little David
and win the war against the Goliath of my own ego.

~Vicki Woodyard

I was watching Anderson Cooper on his new daytime talk show. Did anybody else see it? He confessed to not especially liking…food! He tends to eat the same thing over and over. I found it one of the most interesting shows I have ever seen. And I ended up realizing that we are all crazy—just in different ways and to different degrees. So I thought I would share some of my lifelong craziness with all of you dear crazed folk.

I have never liked to socialize. I don’t dislike people; I just prefer to be at home alone. I can force myself to be with people socially but it doesn’t feel like who I really am. I am always relieved to come home and be quiet. I have never liked to dress up either; it feels like “trouble ahead” when I do that. I become someone other than Vicki.

I know all about people energetically immediately. Through the computer even. I can read a book almost instantly and have always, always known how to read and spell. I love written communication.

I do not like complicated plots in movies or movies that have a lot of evil characters.
I have never liked holidays. The more elaborate an occasion, the less I like it.
These confessions are just pointers to the fact that we are all crazy. C.r.a.z.y.

I don’t like people that talk, talk, talk and go off on tangents, as in “She was wearing this dress and it was made out of…uh…uh…dotted swiss…I think she got it at …uh, uh, uh. I don’t talk or write that way. Keep it simple, people. Keep it simple.

I am a neat freak. My mother says I came out of the womb prissy. There is a picture of me at about age three. I am wearing a straw Easter bonnet and holding a little purse and my mouth is pursed!

One reason I gave up forums is because so many people are c.r.a.z.y. about their brand of God. They insist on having Him served in a certain way. And they want to fill your head with c.r.a.z.y. They want to communicate to you that light workers are taking care of the planet which is leaning crazily on its axis and will likely take off for Key West just to let extra people get on.

See, I get crazy when I sit at the keyboard. At this point I am beginning to write comedy instead of true confessions. I better wrap this up before Anderson Cooper hits me with a Boston Market turkey dinner with two servings of corn and a piece of cornbread. C.r.a.z.y. B.u.t. i.n. a. g.o.o.d. w.a.y. He is my new crush. Call me c.r.a.z.y.I got up this morning knowing I was the dispassionate observer. Synchronistically, John Evans says this in the September issue of Writing and Wellness newsletter:

“Lately I’ve been thinking that if you want to write honestly, you must become an outcast or an exile or at an observer’s remove. As a writer there are at least two of you; one before you became a writer and the one you become after. As a person, you are the passionate participant. As a writer, you are an astute observer, but loyalties to the stories of friends and family are secondary considerations to writing your own story. This is not to say that the right attitude is “@#$% ya’ll, all-a-yah-all,” but it is to say that your story is not about them; it’s about you and all your story!

And so I come here, day after day, observing Vicki’s life and mingling with her humanity and foibles and honest-to-God aloneness. I will say one thing about her. She was born honest. She erected a facade, as does everyone, but she knows it for what it is and sees through the facades of others easily. But she still falls down into reactionary chakras while I look on her with unconditional love.

She has left online communities where she has to suffer the slings and arrows of ill-mannered people, but she knows who her friends are and needs their support.

A Poem For Friends

I like to write notes and poetry and funny stuff in equal measure.
I crack my knuckles and shake out the stress from my fingers
before hitting the mean streets of the internet.
I jump rope to warm up my heart
and play hop scotch from Friend to Friend.
I always hope they are using my words to
wake up to the beauty of who they are
even when they can barely crawl out of bed
and feel the slime of their own self-reproach.
I dance among the alphabet, picking out the
x’s and z’s because they are harder to digest than
the simple a’s and o’s.
I crack wise like I crack my knuckles, just to
see if I still can play the harp like little David
and win the war against the Goliath of my own ego.

~Vicki Woodyard

I am at a point in my life where I pay attention to the small. I start my day quietly. I sit in silence and then have breakfast. In a hot sudsy tub of water I luxuriate consciously. I read the morning paper, make the bed and get dressed. Silence follows me from room to room. I used to have a beloved dog, but silence is even better.

I want to live each day of fall. I want to look out the window as I type and see leaves drifting to the ground. I can let my thoughts fall off the trees of my parched summer heart and look forward to going within as the days get shorter and the nights cooler.

Lighting a scented candle each evening brings me pleasure, as does coffee and chocolate. Someone said that life consists of continuous small treats. I used to feed my dog cookies after every trip in and out of the house. Now I give myself cookies, tea, nuts, whatever….

Truth spins the prayer wheel for me all day long. I have not taken a real vacation in over three years. I am on vacation every day. My bedroom is like one you might find in an inn. I have a fireplace and sliding glass doors that look out onto tall poplars. I rest after lunch and fall into bed at night grateful for such a simple yet inviting room.

Notice that I have not said a word about other people in this note.

I find myself posting less and less on my blog. Instead, Facebook offers me an easier way of posting my essays in the form of notes. More people read me there than on my blog. I would love it if you would Friend me on Facebook so you will have full access to my work.

I am writing new material every day and you may sign up on Facebook to get my notes regularly.

I am hard at work on my new book, A GURU IN THE GUEST ROOM. If you liked my first book, LIFE WITH A HOLE IN IT, I think you will enjoy this one as well.

Love,
Vicki Woodyard
Find me on Facebook and Friend me…see you there!

Matthew K of NondualityUSA had a good Tweet about detoxing from Facebook. What a lovely idea, all of you addlepated addicts of comments whizzing around like bumblebees. We are cross-pollinating each other like crazy just to get a buzzzzz.

I must admit to being an addlepated addict. I write copious notes that gush out of the broken rock of my life. How can water gush from a rock? Let me count the ways. In the form of notes, oneliners, personal admissions, impersonal wisdom, jokes, et al.

Some of us AAs need to attend meetings, but they haven’t been formed yet. That’s a good group waiting to be formed. Addlepated Addicts. Sniffing lines of comments like they were going out of style.

I am still a user so I can’t condemn the AA’s that I know. I don’t like doing the hard stuff, which I call Open Forum Abuse. There, people gather in clots and ream each other out because they “know better.” As far as I know, no one has become enlightened from a Facebook note or if they are, they are too embarrassed to admit it. The Hard Core abusers like to think they are the king and queen pins of us all, just waiting to one-up us into awakening. Awakening against our will, as it were.

Man, have I veered off-topic. Gone down a side-road, a cul de sac of commenting.
Mea culpa, mea culpa, I have sinned against those that know more than I do.
Am I contrite. Not quite.

See ya around, fellow AA’s.

Butterflies

hovering

outside

inside calm now

like a monarch

reigning over

my inner garden.

~Vicki Woodyard

We all love a good Cinderella story. We wait for “the reveal” on so many reality TV shows. I was watching Dr. Phil and his guest, the golden-throated announcer who ended up going from homeless to rehabilitated. The first thing they do, of course, of course, is to give them a nice new set of…teeth! Yes, indeedy do. Nice Hollywood teeth. So the guest and his lady love, both sporting new choppers, as camera-ready as Dr. Phil’s own set, avowed as to how they really wanted to change. This is where I got the urge to come in here and write….

My book is an honest look at how it feels to be down and out in your own home. Down and out, emotionally, that is. How it felt to camp out with a dying man with a death sentence on him. How it felt to sift through my emotional junk just like a hoarder might do, clinging to my idea of how things “should be.” Oh, I was a real prize.

You see, I was on the spiritual path. I was being tamed by a really good horse whisperer. Only thing was, I couldn’t hear Him or see Him. I just saw everything through a blaze of anger and from a pit of despair. Oh, I cleaned up good. That was part of my strategy. Do a good job, take care of business, don’t let ‘em see you crack.

Seven years later, I am almost out of the woods. That light that I refer to in the book’s title is real. I also write about chunks of me falling into the sea. That part is true as well. Just recently a big chunk of Vicki apparently broke off—calved, floated into the ocean.

I don’t know what is next except one day at a time. I shall always remember the days when one day at a time was way too much. Days of transfusions, bad news, death just around the corner, no one to bear my burdens for me.

There is still no one to bear my burdens for me. For any of us. That is why I take such good care of Vicki. I have vowed to do my best by her. This is her second chance at life. She better not screw it up. To that end, I walked away from open forums simply because I don’t enjoy them. Not enjoying something is good enough reason to leave.

The love that is mirrored back to me here is just what the doctor ordered. I am taking it regularly and hopefully, giving it right back.

Words are not the thing. Words are the tools of the thing.