By Bella Mahaya Carter

Years ago, on a solo trip, reeling from rejections in my writing practice, I met a hunched, elderly shopkeeper at Taos Pueblo who winced with pain as she rubbed her neck. I offered her a massage. Her dark eyes twinkled as she nodded and led me to her small back room. The warm air smelled of earth and woodsmoke.

She sat on a chair in front of a stove. I set my hands on her shoulders and kneaded lumpy knots. She closed her eyes and moaned softly.

When I stopped, the old woman sat quietly gazing into the fire. The room was sparse:  a wood chair, a table, a lamp, and a tiny bed draped with a red blanket.

“Wait here.” She rose and went to the storefront, returning with a beaded necklace made of stone-carved birds: sandstone, rose quartz, crystal, chert, and alabaster. “My son carved these,” she told me.

I shook my head.

“Do not refuse my gift,” she said. “It is our way. You gave to me, and now you must let me give to you.”

I put the strand over my head. “When I was a child,” I told her, “my nickname was ‘Birdie.’”

“I know,” she said.

Later, we paused at the front door. The woman pointed to the Sangre de Cristos. “Do you see those mountains?”

I nodded.

“Take in their strength,” she said.

I stared at the range. Higher ground.

“Don’t forget,” she said. “Take it in. Now fly, little bird, fly.”

***

Thirty years later, having alternately flown and fallen, literally and metaphorically, I haven’t forgotten the old woman’s words. I consider them whenever I wear her necklace, stand in the presence of a mountain, or attempt to fly with my writing and life.

Today, on my morning walk, gazing at the San Gabriels, I thought, part of me—part of us all—is the mountain. We each have inner fortitude and strength that is mightier than we realize. Of course, it doesn’t always feel this way. Storms may obscure mountains, but this doesn’t mean the mountain isn’t there.

Bad weather erupts in our lives through circumstances we don’t like, such as writer’s block, naysayers, rejection, and other challenges. Worse than being lost in mental agitation is identifying with it. When I merge with my insecure thinking, inner gremlins spew, you’re not good enough, or no one cares what you have to say, or why bother writing?

I think I am the thunder.

We make things up all the time, not only on the page but in our lives. We concoct narratives while attempting to make sense and meaning of our lived experiences—not just as writers, but as human beings. This process, especially for folks with vivid imaginations, often takes us in the opposite direction of clarity and truth.

I thought for decades these tendencies and judgments were mine alone. But eventually I realized we all have insecure notions—especially writers. I came to realize it’s me, my interpretations—the negative and destructive stories I tell myself and not the downpour of difficult external circumstances—that create my suffering.

When I remember this, my strength resurfaces—and I identify with my inner mountain rather than my storms. It’s a choice. I may be surrounded by turmoil, but creative opportunities and growth reside in how I relate to it.

In the writing circles I facilitate, participants bring both their vulnerabilities and gifts to the Zoom room. I teach people how to navigate their storms skillfully. We cultivate awareness so writers can see their essential selves as separate from these forces and understand the storm is not them. I point each person in the direction of a safe and sacred shelter—within themselves—where their newfound awareness allows them to curate their thoughts, to choose to believe the stories that liberate rather than undermine their spirit and dreams.

Choosing gives each participant wings so they can fly high and see the mountain again.

And the same goes for me.

If I want to fly as a writer and as a person, I must begin with awareness. I listen to my interior flight instructor who whispers, Get up. Do something. Even if you can’t write. Go to a museum or a movie. Read in your hammock. Take a swim, a hike, or a bath. Talk to a friend. Join a writing community—ignore your inner naysayers. Rejoice in your gifts.

We are the mountain, after all. Don’t forget. Now fly, little bird, fly.

___

Bella Mahaya Carter is an award-winning author of three books, most recently, Where Do You Hang Your Hammock? Finding Peace of Mind While You Write, Publish, and Promote Your Book. She is also a spiritual psychology practitioner who facilitates online writing circles for writers, artists, healers, and seekers looking for creative shelter and freedom. Her circles offer participants the opportunity to celebrate and explore their stories through guided mediations, writing prompts, reading, sharing, and coaching. Bella’s poems, essays and stories have appeared in The Sun Magazine, The Brevity Blog, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Literary Mama, Lilith, MacQueens Quinterly, and elsewhere.