Christina Carson, Author

I’m sixty-six years old. I never imagined being this age, in part because it is hard to imagine, and in part because we are infused with such fear about aging that we avoid thinking about it. However, it is just another vantage point, a different pattern in our kaleidoscopic existence. What fascinates me the most is how strongly aging reveals the ageless quality of life, for as our bodies begin to wear; it is easier to sense something about us that feels no different than it did when we were children. This ageless quality within us, which I call the life force, our spiritual motif, can more easily stand out against an obviously aging body. It’s such a contradiction that it almost makes me want to giggle when I notice it.

How strange and magical to feel so ageless—which to us feels young—inside me, when I look so obviously old. And to think it’s been there all along, generally ignored, our preoccupation being with what’s outside us. We are perpetually distracted by our external world believing that it is what matters, that it has the power to bring us happiness and peace and love if we could just figure it out. 

I could talk about my disappointment with a world that has allowed technology to titillate it into missing the fact that all these gadgets just separates us more and more into isolated units of human loneliness and fear. I could talk about sadness at seeing children no longer roaming the woods bringing homes prizes of box turtles, toads and handfuls of lovely flowers, but instead herded into institutions at early ages, forced into an ever increasing heart-numbing conformity. 

But what I see most from this vantage point, even with all that is different around me, is that we are not changing. And it is the very notion that we think we are changing, that keeps us unaware of what is so. Movement is not change. Our premise is the same as it’s always been.

In that fascinating book, Hanta Yo, I talked about in my blog, The Books that Disturb Us, there is a moving passage that describes life from another vantage point, one which is the heritage of native peoples. Read this and see what it feels like inside you when you do:
The American Indian, even before Columbus, was the remnant of a very old race in its final stage, a race that had attained perhaps the highest working concept of individualism ever practiced. Neither the word ‘free’ nor any corresponding term occurs in the root language, in the primal concept: there never was anything for the Indian to free himself from. His was the spirit not seeking truth but holding onto truth. And his was the mind nourished on choice. Whatever he needed to know, nature sooner or later revealed to him. And that which he desired to know—the best way to achieve his maximum spiritual potential—was the only mystery he chose to investigate….He recognized his spirit—his familiar voice—as a truth bearer that told him what to do, never what not to do; his reasoning mind made the choice to act or not to act. 

Were we to change, we would need to change our premise. We would need to understand that inside matters more than outside; that our fear and pain result from this misunderstanding, not what is happening in the world.

And the book continues:
The rhetorical was the only form of questioning the Indian used; he never answered to anyone but 

himself, never answered for anyone but himself. He conjugates the verb ‘think’ in the first person singular only; he never presumes. His language is rich in expressions of relationships but lacks the relative pronoun and the neuter ‘it.’ ‘He’ and ‘she’ incorporated with other parts of speech. ‘I,’[being] the sacred word; ‘I and you’ if and when an affinity is determined.

Interesting isn’t it, when you think about it. We had a similar philosophic beginning, ours from the great I AM. For some reason, we chose a different premise, and thus a different vantage point. Sitting in my sixty-sixth year, I don’t bother with regrets but do pay attention to this undying yearning to live my remaining years from a different premise, one directed by that ageless creature giggling inside me, who wants me to come in and play.

I've been sick for the last week. Illness quiets me and soften me around the edges. I began reminiscing about my life as a shepherdess, my adoration and respect for sheep, and the admirable qualities they demonstrate. Sheep have all the merits of the people I most love – kindness, humor, joy, tolerance and toughness. Our breeding program required that we run several different breeds, but one breed fascinated me most of all – the Dorsets – dubbed by the industry, the Motherbreed. The ewes were not the tall, flashy femme fatales called Suffolks.

Nor were they the rugged Rambouillet ladies of the western range. They were close to the ground, short-coupled, dumpy little gals. But when it came to mothering, the only job a ewe is asked to do, no one surpassed them in their ability to deliver and raise healthy lambs. The moniker, Motherbreed, acknowledged them as the best there was. Their unflappable demeanor made them different from most other breeds of ewes. Thus, their lambs lived next to this rock of steadiness and quietude, the little gaffers having no idea what commotion or stress felt like. The challenge in working with Dorsets was just keeping them on their feet, for 30 seconds of inactivity had them dropping down for a nap.  And when you wanted them back up, they’d have a look on their faces that I swear was akin to their saying, “Are you sure this is absolutely necessary?”                                            Dorset Ewe & Lamb
                                                                                                          

Loving words as I do, Motherbreed is one that fascinates me. The word almost explains itself by the feeling it creates when you say it. Nor is it meant to be gender-biased, describing instead a high order of excellence. Perhaps we indie writers will form the Motherbreed of this new age of authors and publishers. In a strange twist of fate, we are neither solo nor isolated as our nickname suggests. We are a community, powerfully affected by what we and our associates do. A simple set of principles governs such situations. Do your best and help when you can. These are the qualities of a Motherbreed. And I guarantee you, it is not something that we need invent or cobble together from our minds. It is as innate to us as to Dorsets, and begging only our commitment to know it full out. If you doubt, spend a bit of time around some Dorsets ewes and lambs to see what a thing of beauty life becomes when you live it at the level of the Motherbreed.

I, perhaps like you, ponder often these days on how we writers can create the readership and sales we need. Yesterday, I was comparing a small sampling of indie publishers in the Kindle Store Top 100 Best Sellers (paid), looking for commonalities that might explain their presence there. Well, I have to admit, I ended laughing. No one was doing what I had assumed we must do: blog often, tweet lots, or have a website to capture followers. I am not being critical of them. Rather, it suggests how perplexing book marketing has become almost overnight, with its horde of writers and readers showing up at the gate of the only major franchise in town.  It’s a new game, even for this life-long entrepreneur.

There have been plenty of new games in my life where I faced a problem that I had no idea how to solve. In my early years, it resulted in much foot-stomping, whining, and frustration. It took time for me to recognize that two eventualities continually presented themselves in all such cases. The first was – a solution appeared. The second was I could never figure out how. And though the solutions were characterized by a lack of logic or reason, you couldn't argue with the results. 

Such results do, however, need one more element.  You must reach a place of heart where you know beyond all doubt the solution will arise. That’s called intent, and intent is the sole directive in the creative process. Since we set the intent, we indeed call the game. In a strange twist, it's not ours to solve the problem; it's ours to commit totally to the promise of its solution. And I'll tell you, I’m a believer; I’ve seen it happen too many times to sideline myself in skepticism. 

My farming years provided the bellwether example of this uncanny way in which the universe works, if we'll just do what’s ours to do and leave the rest to what we inappropriately refer to as fate. I farmed in the era I described as the agricultural equivalent of the last of the Mohicans. Interest rates were topping 28%, fuel had quadrupled in cost, and lamb prices had dropped 10¢ a pound. In that historically enduring sector of society, even suicides occurred.  And yet we endured.  Our financial picture defied all reason. Our net income of the preceding three years was unarguably too small to live on, yet there we were. My partner and I stared, speechless at the bottom line, and shook our heads. We never did figure out how we were still on the land.   But what I realized in retrospect was: we had called that game. Years earlier, without a hint of doubt, we agreed we would make it; and that we would produce a world grand champion ram to boot. Logically, both were unlikely, but we managed both. So in times of stress and confusion, I would suggest you apply yourself to shoring up your intent, until you are sure there is no doubt left. For that’s how creative we humans truly are.

There is a wonderful story my husband tells, and I'm using it to close this piece. It occurred during an interview by a top sports commentator of a well-known retiring professional umpire. The umpire had had a long and distinguished career, so it seemed almost an afterthought when the commentator asked one last question. He turned to the ump and inquired, “Do you have regrets about any of the balls or strikes you called?” 

The umpire smiled in a knowing way, his answer a profound truth about how our world works. He said only this, “No, because they weren’t balls or strikes until I called them.” 

This I know. We call the game.  And if you would like a life of less angst and no regrets, I encourage you to know it too.

This blog is dedicated to all my tribe mates. It is my apology to you, and if you’ll read on you’ll understand why. Ignorance is bliss only as long as the consequences of one’s choices have not yet shown up. Saturday night, around 1:30 AM, I saw in all its gory detail what my Luddite-type attitude toward social media platforms and tools had wrought me, and unfortunately, you too. 

When Facebook came out, I shunned it, eventually creating a site but rarely visiting it. This was before I’d published my first Kindle novel, and had no interest in social media. I remember hearing talk of President Obama tweeting and wondering what people were referring to. I went on in that fairy tale social media vacuum, until I hit the “save and publish” button at Amazon and became a published author. But instead of assuming full responsibility for what was now mine, the task of building a readership and selling my book, I put a great deal of energy into resistance where social media was concerned, walking stooped-shouldered to my computer, plopping down in my chair, sighing loudly enough for my husband to hear me across the room, and introducing myself to Twitter. Then came the Twitter tools: TweetAdder, Twiping, Tweepi, and eventually Contaxio. I managed reasonably well with those, but when Triberr arrived, outstanding application that it is, I didn’t want another learning curve in my life. With this donkey-like attitude, I took on Triberr. It was that time of year when our business was at flood stage, I had just published a second novel, and the thought of writing multiple blogs each week filled me with dread, and I let it. I knew better, but being right appeared more satisfying in that moment than getting the job done. 

Last night, I realized how well I had ignored every warning sign, every clue that I was doing something wrong. My blunder was to assume the Tiberr approval button was synonymous with a send button like with e-mails or tweets. When I clicked on it, I presumed the post wafted into the ether and on to twitter.  Then pleased I had fulfilled my commitment, and being the tidy freak I am, I would go up to the red X in the little circle and clear that post out, ready for the next. I heard people, including my husband, talk about plugged Sent Streams, and I marveled how that was never my problem. I saw in that box that appears, when you hover your cursor over someone’s photo, the perpetual zero in the box stating I shared # of your posts. It bothered me, but I chalked it up to yet another glitch in Triberr, still convinced I was doing my job. But when those little photos of who was sending out your post never pictured me over on Bert’s computer, a nasty sense that I was somehow the problem surfaced through the denial. Nicole Cook, bless her, answered my bonfire question as to what was going on with these photos, and with that explanation, I began to put the pieces together and realize what I’d done. When I ran it past my husband, Bert, he patiently explained the difference between approve and send. I sat there as the realization hit me. I said to him, “Oh my god, I haven’t sent a single post out since I’ve been on Triberr!”

This morning is a new day dawning. I know because my Sent Stream is as plugged up as yours. However, I’m rejoicing in it, because to me it means I’m finally on the team in my heart and mind, and I’ll be truly supporting you now as you have so steadfastly been doing for me.