Tucson, Arizona
Congratulations, Holly!
Holly’s Bio:
Holly Helscher says that when she writes, she is in what Deepak Chopra calls her “field of pure potentiality.” It’s a place where eight minutes or eight hours feels exactly the same—energizing. With a doctorate in Metaphysics from the American Institute of Holistic Theology, this is exactly the type of comment those closest to her would expect her to make.
Holly also has a BS in English Literature and a MA in Community Counseling, both from the University of Cincinnati. This eclectic education serves her well in her job as the Campus President of Brown Mackie College in Tucson, Arizona. It is this job that transferred her from the Midwest to the desert, which is the heart of her winning story for WOW!
Back in 1975, Holly says she took a single creative writing course as an elective. She credits that professor for instilling her with a love for writing. Since then, she has taken additional writing courses or programs to learn more about how to perfect the craft. These include the Antioch Writers Workshop in Antioch, Ohio as well as Women Writing for (a) Change in Cincinnati. She currently is a correspondence student with Winghill Writing School in Canada. “There is so much to learn,” she says, “but this year I decided if I was going to make this a second career, now was the time to get to it. I just needed to be brave enough to test the waters.”
In testing those waters, Holly has met with early success having recently published a piece for Desert Dog News.
Holly lives with her husband Chuck, and two dogs—Perkins and Eldri. She has a grown son who lives in Cleveland, Ohio.
The Desert Was In My Closet
I disintegrated. A parched, barren world cast in hues of brown ended in a pale blue horizon unblemished by a single cloud. Then there was nothing. Elbows to thighs, I grabbed my bangs and pulled. What madness had made me agree to transfer to a place where cacti and coyotes replaced bushes and bunnies? Lifting my chin, the white walls that separated white ceilings from white floors mesmerized me into a captivity from which I could imagine no escape. The 12 “idea” books that littered the coffee table only strengthened the thrall. Where was I?
“Ellen,” I squeaked with a false bravado, “I need a counselor.” Tears spewed. Two days later I sat in front of a stranger and announced that I had failed my life. She simply listened as I unraveled my despair. With five minutes left on the hour, she handed me a shriveled thread. “Start in your closet. Tell me what you see.”
I slogged through the week pondering her directive. What did my closet have to do with it? It wasn’t until noon seven days later, blankly staring at her that I blurted out, “Three pair of black flats and five black suits.”
“Why?”
I pulled my mouth flat, slitting my eyes, “College presidents wear suits.”
“Says who?”
“They do.”
“Who’re they?”
“Corporate.”
“Who’s corporate?”
“I don’t know.” Listening to my own responses, I wasn’t sure if I was sweating from the heat or from embarrassment. She drove onward.
“Do you like suits?”
Through gritted teeth I replied, “I. Don’t. Know.”
“Find out.”
Later, mentally doodling over that suggestion, I pulled the suits from my closet and laid them out on the bed. Endowing them with life, I asked each one, “Do I like you?”
Adjectives popped up: comfortable, reliable, necessary, essential, professional.
I started the next session. “They’re professional looking and they’re what I need.
“Says who?”
I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, wondering if she was obtuse. “I have to look professional. It’s required in my job.”
“Fine. Who defines what’s professional?”
The verbal sparring continued until I was clenching my teeth.
“Good. You’re feeling something,” she laughed. “Next week I want to know if you like suits.”
Stomping out, I determined to cancel the next appointment. The whole thing was ridiculous and I wasn’t going to go back. What I wanted to know was how to overcome the hypnotic stark white of my home, not if I liked my suits. I was wasting my time. That night I sat down with the 12 decorating books, forcing myself to be inspired. Two hours later my head felt full of wet toilet paper.
She started the next session. “Well?”
I sprang from the chair. In two steps my hand was on the doorknob. Whirling back, I erupted, “I hate them, okay? I detest every one of them! They’re ugly and I feel like a fraud when I wear them! Satisfied?” Stunned, I doubled over, slashed by my own barbs. As I inched back to my seat, she repeated the cruelest one.
“Ah. You feel like a fraud when you wear them. And what are you going to do?” I wanted a throat to choke, but was stymied. Did she mean what was I going to do about the suits, or what was I going do to about feeling fraudulent? Were they the same? I put my head between my knees, faint by the insight now exposing me. I’d been hiding from myself for years.
Today my closet is a vibrant dance of color. No nametag has to confirm my title as I stride across the campus in peek-a-boo heels and water-colored dresses. I grin knowing they call me the “girlie girl president.” Once my wardrobe and soul were harmonized, I was able to start honoring myself in personal spaces. I began small, buying sun catchers to splash rainbows on walls. I used pillows, throws, and frames to discover what shapes and patterns resonated within me. I hung bright enamel tiles in shallow corners. Not even my toaster was exempt from scrutiny. Day by day I started to recognize parts of myself wherever I looked. But becoming intimate with someone I barely know takes time. A year later, still fresh in wonder, I shake my head chuckling in joyous surprise at this journey of self-expression. I never dreamed creating the space I deserved had to begin in my closet.
By the way, I’ve left the toaster white.
***