Haven Spring Blog Series – Part 1

Haven Spring Blog Series

Patricia Young - A Scene

Writing may have brought me to Haven, but I wasn’t a writer until I left.

When people ask how long I’ve been writing, it makes me smile because, to be honest, I can’t remember when writing wasn’t a part of my life. From little diaries with tiny locks and keys to copying lyrics from songs to sing alone. Nature journaling, short stories to poetry. It never occurred to me that writing would become something more than a personal place of comfort, musing, or heartache about the boy in school who never looked at me, but I loved him nonetheless.

There were comments from teachers who saw that there was more in the weaving of my words then a homework assignment. But I never felt worthy to even consider revealing my work to the public or undertake writing a book. Seriously? A book? You must be kidding.

It wasn’t until a lonely night in 2013 that the realization of the trouble we were in held me tight, that I automatically turned to writing for help, guidance or a pearl of wisdom. My husband and I had lost our jobs within three months of one another. Our bank lost paperwork, had us re-do documents more than a half dozen times as we desperately fought to keep our home. Numb hope sat beside me as I aimless searched for remedies on the Internet. From stretching a dime to preparing recipes that would stretch the groceries.

When I look back, I’m not sure what I entered that brought up Haven. My now favorite photo of Laura, wrapped in a shawl leaning on a door frame, a silent welcoming to come inside gently written in her smile. She spoke of being a seeker. Well that was exactly what I was at that moment. I didn’t take time to read the entire page but sent a message and explained, in a nutshell, that I wasn’t asking for a handout. But things were pretty bleak right now, and a direction, a beacon, a pearl of wisdom would be very much appreciated. Who was I kidding? There was little chance of a response, but I pressed send, closed my laptop and went to bed to stare at the ceiling until morning.

The next day I logged on to find a letter from Laura. Not once did she ask for anything, not to buy her book or purchase tea grown in Montana to promote proper grammar, she just connected. She had actually read my thoughts, and the pearl she gave me has become a mantra. Do the work. If you want something if you have a goal if you are in darkness and need to find the light. Do the work it takes to get there.

Two months later I was at the Walking Lightly Ranch. I had never traveled that far alone before. It was scary and exciting all at the same time. It was also the day a deluge of rain took aim at the US Open literally flooding the streets at LaGuardia! Flights were canceled, and the airport was packed with soggy passengers. My morning flight did not board until midnight. I was diverted to Minneapolis and spent the night in a luxury hotel on Delta’s dime. It was a glorious, a sign, if not an exhausting way to start an adventure.

Once home I started my monthly blog Touched By Words. It is my tiny platform. My work was published in local magazines. But it was not until the following year I attempted NaNoWriMo. That is where my book was born. From that point on, I took the bones of my manuscript and built a novel. There were workshops, DVDs, writing circles, courses at the Writing Institute, connections with other writers, authors, and editors. There were some awful, terrible experiences, there were more wonderful, positive ones as I began to really understand the craft of writing. The process of writing. The art of writing.

Now, several years, many drafts, along with a multitude of people who support and encourage me. I finished my first novel. Publication requriers a completely different set of rules and skill set. Developing the query letter was harder for me than writing fifteen chapters. There are many, many people for a fee who will promise you they can help you write. And some can, but then they are silent when it comes to promising you publication. You are on your own. You have no choice but to do the work.

As for me, I have a burn now to take the traditional path and see it through. If it doesn’t happen, I’ve lost nothing but gained knowledge. Either way that is something to celebrate. Which will be another scene I will write about.

Rebecca Deslauriers - Writing as Living

I was suddenly panic stricken, my breath shallow, hands sweating as I stood in line to check out of the Bellagio Hotel where my corporation had just completed its annual meeting. Too much pressure, too many deadlines, the anvil was waiting to fall and my immediate thought was, escape.

I truly do not recall the flight home, or the ride from the airport to my front door. It’s as though that day was dragging me to the depths of an ugly place and I had a choice to climb out of the sink hole or be swallowed, never to return to be the wife, mother, friend I had been.

Months passed from that fateful day, the brink of my demise. As the anxiety and depression began to lift, I felt a new fear. Who am I now? I’m not a corporate physician/hospital administrator, I can’t go back to working in the clinical setting either. What will I do? How do I define myself now? Questions whirred in my brain for weeks.

The month was July, a beautifully new ordinary one. No time commitments, meetings, emails or being on call at the whim of my CEO. My corporate slave days were blessedly behind me. My husband and I wrote a new set of daily rules. First was to make time for myself, which I gratefully did everyday by sleeping in, often sitting outside to enjoy my coffee, read or putter in the yard. I allowed myself to go to lunch with friends, happily enjoying the freeness to nap or ride my bike. The stress had taken a hike. Emptying my soul and ravaged mind was like taking out the garbage and filling the body-can with only goodness and joy.  Those experiences filled my tank, however my gut felt empty. I didn’t miss the cloak of anxiety on my back, but I missed using my brain. What could I do? Find a new career, take a language course, volunteer at the local food bank? Yes, I tried a brief foray into improving my French and spent time helping my church fill boxes for needy children. I couldn’t put my finger on the missing puzzle piece.

July 5th, I decided I would finally clean out my home office. Opening the door, taking a breath, I walked in and began to box the endless papers and pamphlets that were strewn across the weathered white desk that sat below the photos of turtles in the South Pacific, swimming in the clear blue water. Those pictures were my daydream visuals knowing I would someday spend time snorkeling aside these amazing creatures.  Glancing to the right of my desk top computer sat my long dormant lap top. It drew me to its dusty sliver top as if an unseen hand took my arm moving it like a marionette. I blew off the dust, plugged it in to charge, completed a brief cleaning and walked out to the living room to the oversized Pottery Barn chair, threw on the blanket for the pups and plopped down with the lap top. I opened the lid, pulled up a blank page and began to write. I had written multiple papers for my education but this was different, this was heart pouring words, spilling like a cascading waterfall onto the pages. Words of grief, joy, hate and revenge. They flew across my fingers as fast as I could type. Words that were feelings, desires, needing to tell a story, a dark story but I frantically wrote for hours. I didn’t stop from that moment, except to eat, shower and perform the essentials. It became a compulsion to finish my story. So I wrote for several months and finished the book. I was elated, relieved, nervous and felt like I had discovered a newly flavored candy.  This was it, my gut relaxed and I realized I am new someone, a writer.

That initial burning need to write has never left me over these last four years. I have a hope, a relief valve, all within myself that I can release and let fly. If my words are never shared then so be it, but my purpose is filled, there is life after a career in medicine and I’m enjoying every minute of it.

Come to Montana and see why Haven Writing Retreats and Workshops is ranked in the best writing programs  in the US by The Writer magazine, and by Open Road media…and has changed over 700 people’s lives…
You don’t have to be a writer to come to Haven.  Just a seeker who loves the written word, and who finally wants to find your unique voice!
*special spring discounts…
June 12-16 (two more spots)
June 26-30 (one more spot)
Now booking the September Haven Writing Retreats–  A gorgeous time to be in Montana!)
September 18-22
September 25-29
With love,
Laura and the Haven Alums

If you are on the fence…read these lovely testimonials from recent

Haven Writing Retreat alums!

Laura’s gifts are many. She has a way of pulling the story from the writer. She begins with a warming of the hive and by the end of Haven, she has drawn each person’s sweet honey out for all to taste! All good things come to those who wait. It took me years of watching Laura’s Haven retreats from a distance to get to a yes for myself. Thank God I got to a yes!  This was by far the best money I have ever spent on a workshop for my career and I’m deeply grateful. The writing instruction was epic and I left with a renewed love for the craft of writing. The thing that surprised me was the high level of skill Laura has as a facilitator for both the individual and the group. I have been facilitating groups for years and it is something that takes often hard earned skill, insight, passion and a touch of magic. Laura has an abundance of each and made a full-day, learning- packed workshop truly feel like a retreat! Brava Laura! 10,000 Thank you’s for sending me home better at everything I do, especially writing!
I can’t wait to come back for Haven II!”
–Kathleen, San Luis Obispo, CA  (Occupational Therapist)
If you are reading this testimonial, you were like I was: desperately searching for evidence that I should or shouldn’t go, trying to decide if I was or wasn’t a writer. If you are that person in that place, I would like to speak directly to you: go to Haven. If you have found Haven, if you have found this page, life is giving you a gift.  It is up to you to take it. Haven changed my life and my writing in all of the ways it needed to change. Laura is brilliant in a way that is difficult to put into words, but she has a superpower: she helps you shed all of the writers that you are not, and helps you leap into the beautiful writer that you are. If you aren’t sure of your voice, Laura will help you find it, and BELIEVE in it. She’s the writing fairy-godmother that I always wanted and now have. Get there. Jump the hurdles, bypass the doubt, walk through the fear, and get there.”
— Amy, Missoula, MT (Singer-songwriter)
 
This is the power of Haven: For one year, I hadn’t written a word. Not a one. I was stuck in a place in my manuscript, couldn’t figure my way out, and signed up for Haven in a last ditch effort to find the problem before I threw out the whole thing. But on Day 3 of Haven, after working one on one with Laura, I went out into the Montana wilderness with my computer and typed out 600 new words that unlocked the problem in my book. I’ve been back home for four days now, and am 10,000 words into a new draft with no sign of slowing down.” 
– Brooke, Vancouver, BC  (Speaker. Writer. Coach. Chef.)
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Writing as Living

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I heard the first red-winged blackbird in the marsh today, currently under four feet of snow, and worried even as my heart soared.  I love this sound, but it feels too perilous for the birds to be back when we’ve had such late winter snowfall.  But the birds trust that the dormancy is nearly over and that the greening will begin.  I hope that you feel the same way as we let spring into our hearts.
I am entering into my spring Haven Writing Retreat and Workshops schedule and can’t wait to work with these dozens of new voices and stories coming from all over the world to awaken in beautiful Montana.  While we write, reflect, inspire, and learn, I would like to share the work of Haven alums in our spring Haven Alum Blog Series.  For the next weeks, while I’m holding Haven, these alums’ words will light up my blog.  The topic this year:

Writing as Living

Sit down with a cup of tea and muse upon how they have used writing to navigate life on this beautiful and heartbreaking planet…and take a moment to write down your own reflections on where you are in this time of transition from winter to spring.  What is it that you really need to say to yourself?  What would you really like to leave behind?  What would you really like to move toward?  Here’s a chance to be real and raw, and let the power of the written word, much like the the “snows” of winter, melt away what you no longer need, so that new life can begin.

The blog series starts on Wednesday, April 3rd! 

Please enjoy!

If you would like to take an even bigger stand for your self-expression…

Come to Montana and see why Haven Writing Retreats and Workshops is ranked in the best writing programs  in the US by The Writer magazine, and by Open Road media…and has changed over 700 people’s lives…
You don’t have to be a writer to come to Haven.  Just a seeker who loves the written word, and who finally wants to find your unique voice!
*special spring discounts…
June 12-16 (two more spots)
June 26-30 (one more spot)
Now booking the September Haven Writing Retreats–  A gorgeous time to be in Montana!)
September 18-22
September 25-29
With love,
Laura and the Haven Alums

If you are on the fence…read these lovely testimonials from recent

Haven Writing Retreat alums!

Laura’s gifts are many. She has a way of pulling the story from the writer. She begins with a warming of the hive and by the end of Haven, she has drawn each person’s sweet honey out for all to taste! All good things come to those who wait. It took me years of watching Laura’s Haven retreats from a distance to get to a yes for myself. Thank God I got to a yes!  This was by far the best money I have ever spent on a workshop for my career and I’m deeply grateful. The writing instruction was epic and I left with a renewed love for the craft of writing. The thing that surprised me was the high level of skill Laura has as a facilitator for both the individual and the group. I have been facilitating groups for years and it is something that takes often hard earned skill, insight, passion and a touch of magic. Laura has an abundance of each and made a full-day, learning- packed workshop truly feel like a retreat! Brava Laura! 10,000 Thank you’s for sending me home better at everything I do, especially writing!
I can’t wait to come back for Haven II!”
–Kathleen, San Luis Obispo, CA  (Occupational Therapist)
If you are reading this testimonial, you were like I was: desperately searching for evidence that I should or shouldn’t go, trying to decide if I was or wasn’t a writer. If you are that person in that place, I would like to speak directly to you: go to Haven. If you have found Haven, if you have found this page, life is giving you a gift.  It is up to you to take it. Haven changed my life and my writing in all of the ways it needed to change. Laura is brilliant in a way that is difficult to put into words, but she has a superpower: she helps you shed all of the writers that you are not, and helps you leap into the beautiful writer that you are. If you aren’t sure of your voice, Laura will help you find it, and BELIEVE in it. She’s the writing fairy-godmother that I always wanted and now have. Get there. Jump the hurdles, bypass the doubt, walk through the fear, and get there.”
— Amy, Missoula, MT (Singer-songwriter)
This is the power of Haven: For one year, I hadn’t written a word. Not a one. I was stuck in a place in my manuscript, couldn’t figure my way out, and signed up for Haven in a last ditch effort to find the problem before I threw out the whole thing. But on Day 3 of Haven, after working one on one with Laura, I went out into the Montana wilderness with my computer and typed out 600 new words that unlocked the problem in my book. I’ve been back home for four days now, and am 10,000 words into a new draft with no sign of slowing down.” 
– Brooke, Vancouver, BC  (Speaker. Writer. Coach. Chef.)
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The Art of Being Led

 

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I went to Morocco alone for a month to find “that girl” again. I’d grieved my Empty Nest for the six months I gave myself.  A grief “gift,” I called it. I observed the end of this stage of my full-time motherhood in committed vigil.  And I realized that I can live with dinners for one and a very quiet house, (even if it’s been heavy on Mrs. Maisel, Chef’s Table, and Anthony Bourdain re-runs. Okay, and Modern Family too). I’m glad I’m not driving carpool or slinging mayo and peanut-butter at 7:00am or racing to a lesson or a school meeting or a game, too often borrowing from my kids for my work, or vice the verse, and usually coming out feeling “less than” somewhere, no matter how hard I try to be all things for everyone. Except maybe…me.

I haven’t felt that way in six months. There’s been elbow room. My blood pressure is down. I’m taking long baths again. I’m reading poetry again. I’ve grown accustomed to waking and going directly to my writing and reading in that soft trance of dawn before the day steels/steals the muse. I have much more than a room of my own. I’m writing a new book or two. I’m getting a novel published in a year and I have the intuitive space to give it the finishing touches it deserves. My Haven Writing Retreats and Workshops are filling fast. The future feels bright. And Morocco was my deep bow for what I feel was the most important work of my life:  raising two stunning young humans.  I am so proud of them both…  But mothers don’t get diplomas, and Morocco was mine, so it was much more than a trip.  It was a pilgrimage to find out who I am now.

But just before I left for the airport in Minneapolis, on a quick layover to visit my son in college, I dissolved into his arms and wept. It was the last place I wanted to come undone. I wanted to be his kick-ass mama going off to see the world, head high, energetic and ready.

He looked at me somewhere between stunned and horrified and said, “Mom. Out of all the people I know, you are the most capable of pulling this off! Why are you crying???”

I bit my lip and swiped away my tears. “I’m just…a little…scared.  It’s not that I’m afraid of traveling alone. I can’t wait for that. It’s that…I’m afraid I won’t find my joy again. My wonder. My smile. I’m afraid I won’t know what to want without being the mother or the teacher or the caretaker of something besides myself.” I cracked a fake smile. “I’ll be fine. It’s probably just the lack of Vitamin D and the excitement. Stay in touch on our What’s App family group, promise?”

He nodded, but slowly.

What I didn’t tell him was that I was actually afraid of holing up in a hotel room and not having the courage to join in the throng of the world out there beyond my Montana bubble. This aroused righteous refusal from my inner critter, ranging from good to bad to ugly.

Don’t be so dramatic. When have you ever been that person? You’re a throw the window open and leap out into the streets kind of person. You just haven’t done it on your own for a long long time. Like…since you were nineteen, traveling in Europe, Turkey, Greece, the former Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia. You can find her! She’s in you!

And then she’d morph into a posse of people in my life—the loudest and least helpful: Why are you going to Morocco of all places? And why are you going alone? Why don’t you go to Paris like most women your age?

The Paris card ruffles my temerity feathers. “I said it when I was nineteen and I’ll say it now: I love Paris. Who doesn’t? But Paris is easy. I need to go someplace hard. Where my habits and world view and thought patterns get all stirred up and spit out and even forgotten, to make room for new ones that don’t sabotage me. That serve me. I am doing what the poet Emma Mellon suggests. I am going to allow myself to be spelled differently!”

Blank stare. “Well, I think Paris is fabulous.”

You just have to let go, or as I’ve said for many years: allow yourself to be misunderstood. Even though you want to say, At least I’m not going to Syria alone. Or certain parts of suburbia. Wink.

I just smiled in those moments…so seemingly stalwart on the outside, but so puny and scared on the inside. And even worse, the fear wasn’t about the usual things people are afraid of when they travel. I was scared of not being able to spell myself any other way than what I’m used to. Which for the last six months, with the exception of my retreat work which I adore, has been pretty emotionally…well– low. And that is far more terrifying to me than the prospect of a terrorist attack. (And p.s., party-pooper posse: There have been way more terrorist attacks in Paris, than in Morocco!)

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I arrived in Morocco at night. I chose the oldest city, Fes, known for its authenticity and “rawness.” I’d done my homework and knew that the Fes medinas are labyrinthine, thin corridors where you get lost lost lost and have to ask for help, but only from shop keepers and women. Not because it’s dangerous, but because you might be brought to a dead end, and asked for money before you’re guided to your destination. I wasn’t afraid of that. I think what I was scared of most was asking for help at all. Even if I ended up in a dead end and I needed to pay for it. I’m just not good at asking for help.

So I’d arranged to be dropped off in a parking lot and met by the small hotel (riad), as cars don’t drive in the medinas. Donkeys, yes. And bicycles. The driver had kind eyes. I’d soon learn that Moroccans have kind eyes as a rule. A man appeared with a cart, piled my luggage into it, and without a word, walked into the dark medina, winding past cats and closed doors until we arrived at a wooden door with a knocker in the shape of a hamza (hand of God). The owners were out of town.  The manager spoke enough English to tell me so, but that was about it. It helped that he had a terrific smile and a girlish cackle for a laugh. He showed me quickly to my room with huge ceilings and a tile floor covered by one long Berber rug and stately antiques, no heat, and quickly took me up to a small dark room where my place was set in a corner of what looked like a professor’s study. There were books everywhere and a low table with a brass candlestick holding a flickering candle.  He motioned for me to sit on the pillow-covered bench, and I did.  And he left.  No other people in sight.  Dead quiet.  Dead dark.  I reminded myself:  this was the sort of moment that I’d longed for.  To be far away and out of control and having to trust in the central goodness of people.

He came back with a huge tray filled with what I soon learned were Moroccan salads—vegetable dishes full of spices like cumin, ginger, turmeric, sweet paprika, saffron, cardamom, cinnamon. Dishes of olives and a basket of bread. I thought it was dinner and that was just fine by me– it was delicious! But then he came back with a lamb tagine with apricots and almonds and couscous and the most musky heady sauce. I devoured all of it, like I hadn’t eaten a meal in days. And I started to feel a coming alive with this food in this dark room, alone by candlelight.  I slept in sweaters with a hat, since there wasn’t any heat.  I felt a little kick-ass.  A little puny.  But I wasn’t scared.  And I wasn’t sad.  I felt far away from my life and like the happiness pump was being properly primed.

Then it was morning, and I heard what I’d in-part come to Morocco to observe. Adhan: the Call to Prayer, an hour before dawn. I sat in bed, and then folded over into Child’s Pose and listened to this voice, stirring the dark cold and the waking faithful, and I felt it stirring what had felt so dark inside me.

I lay there like that for a long time, and then tucked back under the covers, keeping my mind as empty as possible.  If I was going to find my joy, I needed to keep the regular noise OUT.  As dawn slowly emerged, red, blue, amber, and green shapes cast themselves across my room, moving with the sun. Then there was a loud knock on my door. “Madame! Breakfast is now!”

I’m not really a breakfast person. But I could hear this man standing outside my door, and I quickly put on some clothes and stepped out into what was a gorgeous courtyard, open to the sky, with stained glass windows casting the same colors all over the two stories with intricate green and mustard yellow and black tiled floors and walls, and a fountain in the middle with orange trees and light! Song birds! And a little table set just for me looking over the 1500 year old medina of Fes. Fresh squeezed orange juice, Moroccan tea with a lovely silver teapot and a velvet cozy over its handle. Palm dates. Yoghurt, goat cheese, thick dark honey. Sweet potato jam. Three kinds of bread: flat, crepe, pancake. I smeared the goat cheese on the pancake, and drizzled honey on it and ate it and I felt it again: a shade of happy.

“Come, Madame,” said the smiling man, and he led me down to the courtyard where an elegant, tall man in a traditional hooded djellaba robe and striped scarf waited. My guide. The riad had suggested it in our email correspondence. I’d resisted it. Getting lost was a good thing, yes? “I like to do things on my own.  I’m a good traveler.”  But they had insisted, “Not in the Fes medina.”  So I’d succumbed, but I wasn’t happy about it.

“I am your guide for the day,” he said in a sort of British accent, smiling with his kind eyes and salt and pepper well-groomed beard.

I looked into his eyes.  This was not a typical tour guide.  There would be no selfie-stick.  This man’s eyes had centuries in them.  Immediately, I gave myself to his care, with a relief I didn’t know I needed.

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There began this coming alive that never arrived in one big rush. But in small moments when I would catch myself smiling, and usually following someone who had been designated to help me find my way. I followed this man for two days, eight hours each, all around the bustling sardine-peopled medina and outside its walls too, learning about artisanal arts, still so alive and well in this country– the hammering of copper pots, grandfather to son to son, in a small square, the ancient tannery, still operating as it had from the start, with pigeon droppings as the key ingredient, holding a bundle of mint to my nose. Following his long and stalwart steps to the oldest university in the world, University of Karueein, founded in 859 AD. Showing me the signs of Muslim tolerance in the mosaic designs—an observance of the line of Abraham, from Moses, to Jesus, to Mohammed and the eight gates of Paradise. I caught myself smiling as I skipped forward to keep up with him, weaving around fast-walking women in hijabs and kaftans buying butchered lambs hanging from hooks, and chickens from cages, and spices in pyramids on stands next to a mind-blowing variety of olives and preserved lemons. Dodging bicyclists and donkey dung. And so many many cats. He was the first of a host of guides/teachers/sages who led me through Morocco.  I will never forget him.

IMG_888738e6e069-467d-4547-ad70-620b04d96547And I got used to it– this being led. I’ve never hired a guide in my life. Not for anything. “I can do it alone.” Why? How does doing it alone make you more powerful?  I never could have possibly learned all that I did without these guides, yes about Morocco and culture and humanity, but these guides also brought my smile back.

The man who drove me to and from the Blue City of Chefchauen in the Rif mountains and stopped at groves of olive trees and orchards of oranges because I lifted my camera to the window and he wanted me to stop and soak it in. His country. Where they till the fields with donkeys and horses. “No tractors,” he smiled proudly.

The woman in Marrakech who taught me to cook tagine and pigeon pastilla, and who when I said, “I don’t have anyone to cook for anymore,” excused herself to run to the market and buy me a small red clay tagine to take home. “For one,” she smiled, also a single woman.

And the man who walked me through the thin alleyways of Marrakech by night to eat like a local in spirited hole-in-the-wall places that I would never have had the guts or know-how to navigate, to eat sheep’s head tangia, (I did not eat the eyeball, but the cheek was heavenly), snails, prickly pear, street food that I would never have dared to try, unless Bourdain himself popped it into my mouth. (Turns out he was a fan of these same dark alleys and nighttime haunts).

And the woman who bathed me. Who lay me on a hot marble slab in a hamaam fired by olive branches in an24a62db0-f1c5-4f49-a075-cfa74751034f oven below, covered my skin in a black soap mask, and scrubbed me with a kessa glove…almost everywhere, noting the layers of dead skin that I didn’t know I needed to shed. It hurt. And it healed. I walked out feeling new. “Every week,” she said, smiling, and gave me the cleaned glove to bring home.

And my GOD…the horse guide on the beach whose only English word was gallop, and I did. On a Barb Arabian stallion, at low tide, not a rock anywhere, just hard wet sand for miles.  And he filmed it, galloping alongside me, and gave it to me as a gift.  I’ve watched it probably a hundred times.  I look as free and as happy as I’ve been for a long long time.  And I felt that way too.

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There were so many other people who guided me, taught me, showed me. And I so happily followed. Most of them took my phone out of my hands and said, “Good place for photo,” and took several of them. “Beautiful,” they said. “Look.” Normally I don’t look at photos of myself. They pain me. But they were insistent. “Look!” I looked. With each photo, from each guide, there was a new width and depth to my smile. Lit from within like the hamaam.

I also heard it from people when I had wifi and checked in online along the way. “Your smile! You look so happy! You look so different!”  And yes…some of them were the naysayers!

I hadn’t known I’d let my six months of sadness show. And as I was saying goodbye to Morocco…the fear washed in again.  I was scared again.  What if it comes back when I go home?

Answer:  I’m not going to let it.  That’s all.  I am the gatekeeper, and yes the guide, to my joy.  But…in going home, I’m going to remember to ask for help, find masters and teachers and guides, and open myself to being a joyful follower.

I made these photo collages as a reminder.  Every shot, taken by my guides: (and when I say “guides”…that means all of the kind people who met me lovingly along the way.)Image-1-1

If you are longing to radically rearrange yourself, whether or not you have the ability to go away somewhere bright and new for a month, I highly recommend that you do things way out of your comfort zone. And that you find a kind guide that can show you the way. You don’t have to do it alone.

***I will be writing an extensive piece about my month in Morocco with helpful links and tips for a publication near you, so stay tuned…

One of the best ways I know to be spelled differently, is to come to a Haven Writing Retreat in Montana!

March 20-24 (full)
May 8-12 (full)
June 12-16 (two spots left)
June 26-30 (one spot left)
Sept 18-22 (now booking)
Sept 25-29 (now booking

Go here for more info!  

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IMG_7407I haven’t lived in a city since cell phones or emails or the internet infiltrated our civilization.  So as much as I long for my inner-child Chicago city fix, especially in the deep midwinter dormancy of Montana, when I get that fix, I’m always stunned, disoriented, and frankly worried for our world. The romance of the city, the beat and brash and bravado, the sensory glut, the shiny slick, and the glorious edge…all come at me catapult.  I want to feel every bit of it.  So I fight to keep my Montana filter-less-ness.  I want to do a daring dance with empathy, staring it all down…knowing that I will have to turn away sooner than later, blur my eyes, hold my breath past remarkable stench and heart break.  Still, I ask my heart to pound in pace with city vibrato, until I have to ask my better-sense to grab the back of my neck and force it forward. Downward. Observing only my boots and the sidewalk.  You can’t take it all in, in the end, but I like to try for a wide-eyed aperture for as long as I can stand it.

I try to make that filter-less-ness last as long as I can because I want to see who we’ve become.  I want to see that screens and satellite beams criss-crossing invisibly around us haven’t wound us so tight that we won’t be able to find our way out of this world wide web, if need be.  (I sense that there will be a Need Be.)  I want to believe that these buttons we push without a click or a feel to them, are making our lives easier and our propensity to wonder about the person crossing the street, greater. I want to believe that because it is possible to know so much now with those buttons and those screens and satellite strings…that we’re using that knowledge to linger in our longing to know each other.  Yes?  To sit longer at a meal and ask an extra question of our colleague or daughter or friend. To smile on the subway, especially at sad eyes, or to meet them with our own sad eyes. To step out of the sidewalk sea and sit on a bench for no other reason than:  all of this knowledge has turned us into supreme seeking beings and it begs us to stop.  Watch.  Feel.  See.  Know. I want to believe all of that.  But sitting there on a bench, watching the sidewalk sea…I don’t.  I see people walking faster and faster and the beat driving them harder and harder.  So serious and so purpose-driven and so confident about what’s around the bend.

Last week in San Francisco, after leading Haven Writing Workshops, helping people to figure out how to write a book and how to find their voices and figure out what they have to say…I sat there on a bench and I asked myself:  How purposefully and confidently can we really walk when we depend on a small rectangle of light and its buttons and arrows to tell us where to go right and left, and when to walk straight or take a slight turn…or re-calculate. Or push in a few numbers and have a car appear that takes us where we want to go so that we don’t have to look at all.  We seem so cock-sure.  But my Montana-ness knows that it’s such a thin veneer and I wanted to cry out, “Don’t you all know how incapacitated we have all become???  How reliant?  How clueless?  Don’t you realize how fickle our power is if it depends on a cord or a battery or a plug???”  Where oh where is our true power?

Because if and when the beams stop beaming and we are released from the satellite string…nay, rope….will we look up and at each other and say, “Woah. That was a weird dream.  I dreamed I was fine.  Great, even.  But I’m not fine.  Or great.  At all.  And you don’t look much better.  Let’s not even ask each other how we are.  Let’s just be with one another.  That looks like a nice park bench. Come, let’s sit for a while and tell each other our stories. Without looking at that little rectangle of light thingy, whatever it is. Let me see your hand.  It looks tired from holding that flat ‘smart’ thing. Remember when your hand used to hold reins and gallop to the river? Or hold the plow? Or palm the seed by the light of the full moon? Was that better then? Did we look at each other more? Did we not know where we were going but for news from the next town over from a wayward traveler? Or from the way cottonwoods flank river beds across a valley? Or that the shape of a nine-month pregnant belly meant that the world around that woman needed to ready itself for another miracle?  Get the hot water boiling.  Sterilized rags.  Call the midwife?

Is our midwife named Siri now?  (At least mine has a British accent, so I feel “smart” to have a chum like her when I wander around at her discretion, muttering to myself, this is not the zombie apocalypse.  This is not the zombie apocalypse.)

Because that’s the thing:  I have to be careful not to pretend like I am above any of it just because I don’t live in the thick of it.  If Montana has taught me anything, it’s that I know I’m not above anything.  In fact, being so removed from our city civilization for twenty-seven years, often has me in a state of less-than, full-FOMO, feeling like an underconfident and yes, under-competent Rip VanWinkle.  Like when I’m in the city, I’ve been jolted awake from my own deep sleep, the opposite dream, in which I’ve been too long nestled in the cleavage of Mother Nature, going days without speaking to anyone, my only witness, the white-tailed deer.  My cell phone doesn’t even work at my house.  My wifi is fickle and so is my power.  The fireplace is not decorative.  It’s a hearth that would burn if all else failed in the way of technology, and there have been plenty of winter nights when it’s the keeper of my hope too.  And I lie there staring at its flickering coals and feeling its heat, thinking that fire is where it all started.  Fire was the initial step that humans took to what has become our giant step into our current state of things.  How different was that first spark from what happens in Microsoft think-tanks in Palo Alto?

So I wonder:

Have we always been like we are now, just with different gizmos and the same ambition?  So cock-sure in our questions and so hungry for answers? Did we claw our way up the invention ladder to this world of technology that has become our norm, yes even in Montana, (though my best friend still has dial-up and doesn’t have a cell phone at all), and has our technology really made life easier? Has it really connected us? How do we really feel…alone in the dark with our little rectangular screens giving us answers about where to go and what to do and how someone else is feeling and what they are doing?

All week long, walking the city streets, I saw despair, is what I saw.  Emptiness.  A lot of people in comfortable, yet chic, shoes, a yoga mat slung over their shoulder, ears full of headphones, Bluetooth, earbuds, talking into the ozone.  Loudly.  I saw people looking into screens for answers, not into each others’ eyes. The conversations that came easily were with– get this: Uber and Lyft drivers…most of them new to this country and trying to figure it out too.  And thus, also looking at screens for answers—shortest route, traffic, construction.  But still, into the rearview mirror, asking me how my day was going. I didn’t tell them any of this. I told them “Great!” Like everyone else. I guess a filter can only last so long, unless you want your heart to break.

So before it did, with two more days in the city, I promised to linger longer at each table with my little rectangular notebook instead of my phone. Pen to paper I wrote what I could see and recognize about our city civilization that lasts, regardless of how we have, and will continue to, develop as a species. I asked myself:  what’s been here from the beginning and what will be with us always, besides the fact that none of us is getting out of here alive.

It was the stuff you’d think it was.  I wrote:

I believe in people’s central goodness.  Just look at the way that man helped that older woman with the cane get to her seat, and waited with her until she was settled.

I believe in our need for community.  Just look at the way this restaurant has a communal table and that it’s fuller than the bar.

I believe in our fear.  Everyone’s talking about the earthquake last night and recalling 1989.  And no one is cavalier.  “Isn’t there a way for them to know when they’re coming?” I asked.  No.  Not even Siri can tell us that.

I believe in the collective.  Otherwise, why wouldn’t we all do as my literary hero, and perhaps me too:

“The world that used to nurse us
now keeps shouting inane instructions.
That’s why I ran to the woods.”
― Jim Harrison

I believe in our ability to stay.  Hold vigil.  Keep the hearth warm, whatever that means for each of us.  The tenacity of the homeless who brave the nights in doorways with one blanket and maybe some cardboard.

I also believe in our hope.  When it’s time to take a new step in a new direction.  And it might be a surprise step.  I believe in our ability to believe that there’s something around the bend that might change everything, and it might change everything for the better.  Better being a relative term.

And I think all of these core beliefs apply to any sort of living—country, city, suburban.  But it does require us stopping from time to time, moment to moment, and removing the filter to check in on where our civilization is and isn’t.  So find a bench.  A stoop.  Some steps.  And stop.  Take pause.

I’m about to go to Morocco for a month of it.  Alone.  This is my deep bow after all these years of day-to-day hands-on mothering.  It’s also my call to action for what’s ahead—to live into it bravely and whole-heartedly.  And who knows if my cell phone or my GPS will help me navigate the labyrinthine medinas and markets and if I’ll find my way effectively across the desert.  I don’t speak Arabic, or even French.  I’m going to get by on these core beliefs.  I’ll be writing about it along the way.  I think we all need to take a giant step out of our lives and see who we really are, alone in the world, without technology.  Become disoriented and wobbly and look our fear in the eye and each others’ fear too.  I found some good walking shoes.  My daughter gave me a beautiful blank-paged journal for Christmas.  I have a good book.  I have my beliefs and I have my central goodness, which I have to believe is greater than my fear.  Just like love.  Just…like…you.

Bon Voyage.

Love,

Laura

Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2019

You do NOT have to be a writer to come– just a seeker who loves the written word, and longs to find your unique voice.  It’s here…in the stunning wilderness of Montana!  Click for more info.

March 20-24 (full with wait list)
May 8-12 (ah, the sweet month of May in Montana…darling buds and all.)
June 12-16 (great time of year for teachers. Time to fill YOUR cup!)
June 26-30 (ditto)
Sept 18-22 (my favorite time of year.  Still warm during the day.  Fire in the fireplace at night.)
Sept 25-29 (ditto)

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***Haven Wander:  Morocco (February 2019) is full

 

 

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The Complete Puzzle

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My kids and I spent hours and hours of our holiday this year, doing jigsaw puzzles.  It was their idea.  I couldn’t really get them to do puzzles when they were little, but suddenly it’s “Mom, can we do a puzzle?” and I’m thrilled.  No screens.  No polite or forced let’s-make-this-moment-count conversations.  Just hanging out, focused on putting something together…together.  Laughs.  Loose language.  Thoughts that spilled out as words when we weren’t looking.  I loved every minute of it.  No “can you set the table” or “get dressed–the guests are coming in half an hour!” or “you need a haircut” or “hurry—we only have ten minutes to get to our gate.”  Just blah-blah-blahing in a way we haven’t really blah-blah-blahed in a long time.  And a lot of it was because I didn’t put the puzzle off on a side table in a side room.  I put it front and center on the kitchen table.  At meal time, we just threw down placemats and ate with the growing assemblage of little pieces below us.  I felt those puzzle pieces’ hope for wholeness.  And maybe mine too.

I loved puzzles as a child, knowing that there was a complete story that had been “whole” once and had deliberately been parsed into pieces for me to arrange and put back together. Maybe I was co-dependent that way, or a “fixer,” or just wanted to have faith that life had pieces that were part of a whole that made sense.  A world I could count on and maybe even control.  I would sit there for hours, doing puzzles.  My parents used to marvel at how “good” I was at it.  How “patient” I was.  How much of a “stick-to-it-er” I was.  I got such satisfaction at being called “good” at putting things together, especially when it was hard.

I also loved my china animals and played with them in the woods, tucking them into the forest floor and having trillium and fairy slipper parties with pine needle upside-down-cake and stone soup.  Inherently, they broke.  So I spent a lot of time with Super Glue as a child too, priding myself on how you could barely tell that my little china wonders had broken in the first place.  Later, I got into mosaics—saving every single broken piece of china in my life in a box that travelled with me through my 20s and 30s until I finally had a home that I could count on, and started making mosaics for my garden steps.  In short, I’ve been the assembler of broken bits.

I won’t say that my family is broken.  I’ve never been able to tolerate the phrase “broken home” even when I was married and had my little family pack intact.  Nothing is broken when there is love involved.  And there is so much love at this table of mine with these two kids.  BUT…they don’t live here anymore.

So what do I put back together?  The likely answer is:  me.  I need to fix…me.

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What pieces do I need to fix?  If I’m that little girl at the puzzle table…and I get very very real…well, I need to fix my fear.  My fear of, now what.  My fear of Who am I just sitting alone in my house with all these pieces everywhere?  My fear of all these stacks and piles that have accumulated over the years when my motherhood had to trump everything else.  And yes, my fear of table-for-one.  My fear of just me and so many pieces to put together all on my own.  All through the holidays, I felt this overwhelming sense of, “It’s all on my shoulders.  And shit man—I have really sturdy shoulders.  Maybe this is what I was meant to be:  A master puzzler.  (If Will Shortz is reading this, will you marry me?  Or at least come over for the Sunday morning puzzle over some really great Earl Grey?)

A master puzzler.  Because I can tell you:  I am not afraid of the pieces.  At all.  I expect them, in fact.  Don’t you?  I mean, life comes in puzzle pieces.  So…maybe it’s the whole, that I’m actually afraid of.  Huh.  Maybe I’m afraid to trust that I will feel whole again, just me.  That really scares me.

But why wouldn’t we believe in our wholeness?  Why is it so much easier to believe in our brokenness?  Some of us don’t believe there’s a whole, complete picture.  But I do.  I’m just trying to live into it, knowing that it changes as it grows, if I’m living it with any faith.  That’s where I need to put my energy:  on faith in the future.  Not fear of it.

So…the kids gone.  Me alone.  Do I keep cooking elaborate meals like I have all Christmas and New Years– table for one in my own home?  Do I do puzzles by myself?  I can’t imagine that.  Do I sit in the silence and write and write and write and take walks in the snowy woods and remember to take my cell phone because what if I need help out there?  Mountain lions et al.  Do I furiously fill up my house with friends and other people seeking community?  Book group on Mondays, friend pot luc on Wednesdays, movie night on Fridays?

puzzzleOr do I just let the pieces fall where they may and NOT pick them up anymore?  What if I just let someone else pick them up?  Or no one at all.  I’m not talking about my bills and my taxes and my job and the pieces of my children’s lives that are still not totally independent.  I’m talking about my heart.  For all the times I judged women who came undone after their children left home, I’m now having a “sit down” with myself, as my grandmother used to say.  I have not come undone.  Not in the way that has people worried, myself included.  It’s more in a way of finding what felt like a complete puzzle in an old drawer and breaking it apart so that I can do it all over again.  Not cheating—but taking the chunks of whole sections and breaking them apart…so that they can become more whole.  Starting from scratch.  Only now, it’s not my little girl fingers.  Or my mother fingers.  It’s these fingers.  They’re wrinkly and veiny and worn.  I like these fingers.  Now to like this puzzle of my life.

Here’s my solution:  I’m taking off.  For a month.  Leave it all behind.  Let the memories sort themselves out, let the well argue with the sceptic tank, and the pipes fight to stay warm all on their own.  (please God).  I’m going somewhere vastly different from where I live.  I’m going to Morocco for the first time and I’m going solo.  The more I plan it, the more I imagine myself in serious disorientation.  Puzzle pieces on a table I’ve never seen before, and I’ve lost the box with the picture on top.  Buses through foreign soil, small riads run by families and who knows if I’m their only guest– so it’s just me sitting there alone in courtyards in Fez, and Marrakech, Chefchaouen, and Essaouira, and gosh.  Who knows who I will be.

images (1)I do know what I can count on, and that feels good.  I know I’ll be hungry for delicious food.  I’ll want to wander in nooks and crannies where not a lot of people go.  I’ll want to sit at cafes and write.  I’ll want to go to little artisanal shops and please don’t let me buy any more rugs.  Well…maybe just…one.  (I have a rug problem. c. Istanbul, 1986).  I’ll want to ride a Barb-Arabian horse if I can find one.  Preferably on a beach.  I truly believe this trip is the antidote to my fear of what comes next in my life.  Because I’ll be focusing on what I want, instead of what everybody else wants.  And it won’t be considered selfish.  I won’t let it be considered selfish.  I’ll know, in my deepest heart of hearts, that it is absolutely mandatory for the next stage of my life.  This is ME TIME, ladies and gentlemen of the unusually cruel jury that lives in my head.  I’m going to go do what I want.  Damnit.

If I back up to when I didn’t have children, I can say that I had more confidence in the complete puzzle.  I saw it.  I had the guy, the dreams, the house, the will.  And BOY did I have the confidence.

Maybe that’s what I’m after:  the confidence.  Or maybe just the blind belief in it all.  The complete puzzle.images

Anthony Bourdain said he felt lonely a lot of the time, traveling around the world, having these incredible meals in these incredible places and not having anyone to share it with at the end of the day.  Tony, maybe you absorbed our pain so that we can have a brighter future.  (We miss you.  I’m not sure that I’d marry you, though.  In case you asked.)  I want light now.  Delight!  What the holidays beg for:  comfort and joy!  I had it this holiday.  Now to move into 2019 with more of the same.  Just…me!

Yesterday, we shoved the Christmas tree out the French doors and put all the ornaments in the attic for next year.  We finished the last puzzle.  The first one was of doors.  #symbolic.  The last one was of a grizzly bear with a whole world of Montana, and of its tribe, in its body like it swallowed itself whole.  And after they were all in bed, late night, I looked at it.  Whole.  And I thought, this is what I am now. This bear.  I have swallowed my life whole, and now it’s time to swallow myself whole.IMG_7209

I felt lit from within.  And I said it out loud.  “That’s what I’m going to do.  What my literary hero, Jim Harrison, declared for himself.”

I’ve decided to make up my mind about nothing, to assume the water mask, 

to finish my life disguised as a creek, an eddy, joining at night the full, sweet flow, to absorb the sky,

to swallow the heat and the cold, the moon
and the stars, to swallow myself
in ceaseless flow.

To swallow myself in ceaseless flow.  Whatever that means.  If I find it in Morocco…I’ll let you know.  I’ll hold the torch, in case you need it.  In case you need to know that open doors await you if you just walk through.  You are not alone in your fear or in your life.  And really…I’m not either.  We are in this together.  We just have to get ourselves out into the world of puzzle pieces and try to put it all together best we can.

So happy New Year, everyone.  May we step out of our fear and into our next…best…us.

Love,

Laura

Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2019

You do NOT have to be a writer to come– just a seeker who loves the written word, and longs to find your unique voice.  It’s here…in the stunning wilderness of Montana!  Click for more info.

March 20-24 (full with wait list)
May 8-12 (ah, the sweet month of May in Montana…darling buds and all.)
June 12-16 (great time of year for teachers. Time to fill YOUR cup!)
June 26-30 (ditto)
Sept 18-22 (my favorite time of year.  Still warm during the day.  Fire in the fireplace at night.)
Sept 25-29 (ditto)

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***Haven Wander:  Morocco (February 2019) is full

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Come Together…Right Now.

community linking hands_136056599There have been two events in the last week that have brought deep calm and hope to me where I didn’t know hope was missing.  I hadn’t realized how much the news had been weighing on me. I’ve felt a responsibility to watch it, read it, try to understand it– but I think that the current state of this country has been breaking me down from the inside out.  Hard.  And I now know I’m not alone.

For the most part, I keep my political orientation to myself, but I realized this week, that the breakdown I’ve been feeling transcends partisan opinions or beliefs.  It is a deep wound of disorientation.  Of assault on what I believe is the basic goodness of people in general and leaders in specific.  And I see now that our collective is feeling it to the bone.  Bone on bone.  Late night TV isn’t even that funny.  I watch it as a nightly relief, and yes I laugh…but lately, I sort of want to cry at the jokes too.  I feel…despair.

I’m a bucker-upper.  A glass-half-full kinda gal.  A this-too-shall-pass person.  So this despair thing is something new and I dearly and desperately don’t want it to become my new normalIn this last week of hope, I’ve realized that I want to/need to feel like I belong to something that is a firmament of integrity and goodness.  I need to trust-fall into that firmament and know it will catch me and hold me and let me give it my faith.

That happened to me this week.  Twice.  I want to share a bit of it with you so that you know, in case you’ve forgotten, that it’s possible.  But it doesn’t happen by accident.

Hope #1 (not in this order)

I spent the morning of December 5th like many of us did:  watching the George H. W. Bush memorial service.  Politics aside, the sum of its parts blind-sided me with overwhelming sobbing.  Reverie.  A deep internal bowing.

I couldn’t stop it.  I didn’t want to stop it.  There was a fierce intuitive understanding that I needed to cry those tears.  Watching that grief-struck family in that hallowed American hall, with those old hymns and military overtures, those speeches and the appropriate laude and honor…it was clear to me that we were mourning a good man.  The man that was being mourned and honored represents something that I hold dear, and that is the importance of a strong, good, leader who loved his wife, his family, his country, and who believed in kindness and even gentleness.  Who came from an era of loyal patriots that didn’t whine or blame or boast or spew morass.

It brought me back to the rooting of my childhood when I stood in church next to my father and harmonized on hymns and held his liver-spotted hand and played with his soft blue veins and looked at his high white thumb moons and knew that he was the gentleman he was because of his hard work, his WW II pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps way of showing up, his values, his ethics, his common decency, his dedication to his family, his job, his community, his fellow human.  I hear his “Shoulders back, Munson” every day, especially when I need courage.

I believed in those things because of him and the other class-act gentlemen I was raised with from that era.  I cried because I miss them.  They’re dying off.  And in this daily incineration of our hearts by the nightly news…I just want to believe in our country and feel like I can trust-fall into it like I did even then, again, politics aside.  Watching that funeral, I realized that I have never felt more vulnerable and heart- sick as an American, than I do right now.  I long for unity.  I have never seen such division and while I try not to focus on it, how can you not feel its corrosion of the collective?  It’s everywhere.  Remember Hands Across America?  I want to link arms, whatever is your politics, and be good together.  I believe in our central goodness.  My father did too.  He raised me to believe in it, to look for it, to be it.

As I watched those speeches and listened to the Episcopal liturgy of my youth, the bible verses and hymns, I wept.  Sobbed.  Smiled through tears.  One of my very favorites:  O God, our help in ages past.  I sang/hummed along to every verse of it.  I cried at the soprano descants.  The altos grounding it.  But mostly I cried because I saw a family there, grieving their legendary patriarch.  And giving us our own grief to mourn as patriots.  Not divided.  For a few hours, I forgot who our president is, what crazed gun-slinging madman or natural disaster has just devastated a community.  We were crying good tears.  Together.  And I believe that we were grieving not just a man, but our unity.

Tom Brokaw said it so well, holding back tears, just after the service:

“I’ve never seen one that had such an important message that was so far reaching. It was an Episcopalian ceremony with an ecumenical message.  And the message was about faith and hope, but family and values.  About dedication to, not just your family, but your country as well.  And to know WHEN you have to cross the aisle and pull together.

…I think for a lot of people this was a distillation of a message that we all need to hear.  …We ought to be thinking about the message that we heard here today.”

Hope #2

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I also felt that trust-fall into hope in a home in Palm Springs, CA last week, in celebration of two wildly talented women:  an author, and a musician, brought together by an Emmy award winning journalist.  They were having dinner one night, and they decided to celebrate with an intentional gathering of kindreds.  We came from all over—fifty women.  We came with our hearts in our hands, and we came without wanting things from one another, other than community, inspiration, and loving connection.

We were welcomed with the invitation to put down our phones and connect with one another, have those conversations that we all need to be having, in person, looking into each others’ eyes.  We were promised that each person was specially chosen to be at this celebration and that as a result, we were with kindred sisters.

I put any residual adolescent PTSD aside and spent the day trust-falling into each circle of women, and like-wise, holding them as they trust-fell into my circles.  It was an Us Us.  All day.  Hiking through Indian Canyon, eating delicious food, hanging by the pool and hot tub, and all the way through to dress-up evening clothes, and Happy Birthday, and for some of us, late night shenanigans.

Every single one of these women felt like an immediate sister to me.  We all knew that we are highly sensitive people, prone to high-octane empathy and sometimes overwhelm, and we did it anyway.  We trusted each other and we told each other our stories and we tried to find meaning and hope in what feels so painful in our national collective– though we spoke less about that pain, and more about the hope.  And we freaking laughed and played like fifty of the best playmates you may or may not have had as a child.  Or in high school.  Or college.  Or even with your current friends.  But we didn’t talk about what we didn’t have.  We talked about how we wanted more of this!

At one point, I turned to a writer friend who has done my Haven Writing Retreat in Montana, our toes wiggling in the warm pool like little girls, and I said, “We are all fluent in this language.  And yet we so rarely speak it.”  She nodded, smiling, and said, “Write that down.”  Which is what I am constantly saying at Haven.  It was so nice to be told it!   So I did, and here it is.  Let’s memorize it.  We are all fluent in this language of connection, and yet we so rarely speak it.  It really is…our Mother tongue.

By the end of the evening, all of us sitting on the floor, eating, laughing, throwing out our arms or putting our palms together as we shared our truth, sometimes touching without meaning to and not apologizing for it, like one organism, moving our appendages in an alchemistic equilibrium, our hostess stood up and called out:  “Shall we meet again next year?!”  And we all hooted and hollered, “YES!”

I kept finding myself saying, “I’m so happy.  I haven’t been happy like this in a long long time.”  It was a surprise because I’m happily with groups of women all the time.  But ‘tis true that we need to receive as much as we give, to make a whole, effective person, and a whole effective heart.

So there it is:  we’re STARVED for connection.  LOVING, supportive, raw and real…connection.  I know this as the author of a memoir, and as the leader of retreats because I hear over and over again messages of gratitude for helping people know that they’re not alone.  But I didn’t realize that I’ve forgotten this as a woman, away from a leadership position.  Everyone in that room is in a leadership role in her life.  And everyone in that room was happy to leave it for the day.  I was so happy not to lead.  To listen and take it all in, and say things in a way that doesn’t have to be quotable or learnable or teachable.  Just to truly…let it all hang out.  Let it all fall back.  Not lean in.  Fall back…in trust and true connection with no agenda except for the hope of feeling known and knowing with our empathy as our guide.

So what I know of hope right now, is the feeling of falling into it and trusting that there are people who can hold you, just as you promise to hold them.  In total health and harmony, heart, and yes hope.  A more kind and more gentle nation…indeed.

I want to thank the women for taking their dinner trio think tank/love-fest, fifty-fold.  I want to thank the nation for stopping this week for a few hours to feel unified.  I want to thank you for reading this and for picking up your lone hand and placing it in the palm of another’s.  We can do this…together.  We have to.  No choice.  We are the UNITED States of America, after all.

Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2019

You do NOT have to be a writer to come– just a seeker who loves the written word, and longs to find your unique voice.  It’s here…in the stunning wilderness of Montana!  Click for more info.

March 20-24 (only one spot left)
May 8-12 (ah, the sweet month of May in Montana…darling buds and all.)
June 12-16 (great time of year for teachers. Time to fill YOUR cup!)
June 26-30 (ditto)
Sept 18-22 (my favorite time of year.  Still warm during the day.  Fire in the fireplace at night.)
Sept 25-29 (ditto)

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***Haven Wander:  Morocco (February 2019) may have a spot. Email me for more info:  laura@lauramunson.com

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Heart Language

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I woke early this morning, as I seem to do these days, with words.  They were for myself, and I relished them.  And then I decided to give them, in gratitude, to my Haven Writing Retreat alums on our private online page.  As I wrote them, it occurred to me that I am just as grateful for my readers.  So I offer these words to you, as a Thanksgiving:

As we go into the holiday, I want you all to know how grateful I am for you. Outside of my motherhood, Haven is the greatest blessing of my life. You have all engraved yourselves, your muses, your voices, your stories, your pain and joy and self-discovery…into my heart forever. You might think that I don’t remember you, or that you didn’t make an impression on me. It’s not possible. You are all there, in this place called Haven, which I carry with me everywhere.

What I want for you: is to write.  However that works for you, based on who you are and what your life is like and what your responsibilities and habits are.  What I want for you:  is the permission to make time for writing in your life. I want this for you because I know writing to be one of the purest ways to navigate this beautiful and heartbreaking thing called life. I know it because I live by that purity. Do I write every day? No. Do I live with my heart and mind and eyes wide open? Yes. That’s writing too. If you live in this way, then it works in you even when you’re not putting pen to paper or pounding on keyboards. What you are looking for is simply this: truth. Your truth. And if you wake up to that longing and that birthing every day and live by it…the words will come.

Sometimes they’ll want to be put down somewhere. In your journal. In an essay or a short story or a memoir or a novel or a poem or a song. For the last six months, I’ve been writing my way through this Empty Nest transition. I write most mornings but not all of them. Sometimes I read instead. And yes, sometimes I succumb to my email inbox or social media instead. When I do that, I always pay for it. Like I’ve cheated myself out of that meditative waking trance where truth lives. I go into my day scattered, like I’ve flung myself to the wind, and I come down in pieces. I spend my day gathering myself and to no great avail.

So I try very hard not to do that. I try to fall asleep knowing that when I wake, I will honor my rest by going gently into the day with the alchemy of slumber which so often begets words. Not just any words, but those pure words that I call Heart Language. The more I trust in this, the more I wake with a few words of Heart Language that have given themselves to me in my sleeping. When that happens, I go straight to my journal or to a Word document on my computer. I turn off my Wifi so I’m not tempted to stray from them, but instead to honor them fully and see what they need to become. To see how they can hold me in this new day.17212146_10154113844731266_1738394229619340222_o

As you move through this holiday season– maybe with all of your traditions intact, just the way you love them to be, or not…may you take a moment before you move into your day, to let your Heart Language out and onto the page. Root yourself in those words and fasten them to you as you go. Surely this holiday, there will be some sort of gratitude and some sort of disappointment. Holidays just work that way. But if you have the purity of your unique Heart Language guiding you, holding you, you will have clarity and even solace.

So write down some words that will help you. Words you can breathe with. Words you can fold into when you’re tired or sad. Words that you can wrap around you when you need comfort. Or words that you can whisper in a room, alone, when you need courage or just a reminder of who you are, just you. Maybe even words you can offer as thanks to someone you love. My words this morning, and they woke me early as if to say, “you need to write this down so you don’t forget, so you have this one phrase to hold you this holiday without your children,” were: You get to be happy now.

Was I so unhappy, I wonder, in these last six months? I spent an hour writing about it, pre-dawn, pre-this-note to you. I feel grounded, rooted, clear, true, and yes, purified. That’s what I’m fastening to my heart as I go through these unusual days of Thanksgiving, without my motherhood or traditions intact. There will be different ways to give thanks and take pause. My words, as is their promise, will work their grace in me. I hope that you have your words, even if you don’t have your people, or your place, or your usual. If you want to borrow mine, feel free.

You get to be happy now.

With love and gratitude,

Laura

P.S. For my ridiculously deelish gravy recipe, go here!

Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2019

You do NOT have to be a writer to come– just a seeker who loves the written word, and longs to find your unique voice.  It’s here…in the stunning wilderness of Montana!  Click for more info.

March 20-24 (only a few spots left)
May 8-12
June 12-16
June 26-30
Sept 18-22
Sept 25-29

***Haven Wander:  Morocco (February 2019) may have a spot. Email me for more info:  laura@lauramunson.com

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Thanksgiving Gravy Haven

 

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Now Booking Haven Writing Retreat
s 2019

You do NOT have to be a writer to come– just a seeker who loves the written word, and longs to find your unique voice.  It’s here…in the stunning wilderness of Montana!  Click for more info.

March 20-24
May 8-12
June 12-16
June 26-30
Sept 18-22
Sept 25-29

Well, Thanksgiving is almost here and many of us fear the  gravy.  Fear NOT!  You don’t need flour.  You don’t need to reduce anything.  And for heaven’s sake, you don’t need some powdered packet from the grocery store.  I have been playing around with my gravy for years, and this is where I’ve landed.  It’s a commitment, but you will be having “some turkey with your gravy” by the time you take your first taste.  Enjoy, and remember to tell the people you’re with on this holiday what you appreciate about them.  And stay off politics!!!!!!!

Laura’s 20 years-in-the-making Delicious Coveted and Begged-for Turkey Gravy Recipe

(Not heart smart, but who cares.  It’s one or two meals a year!)

The secret to this liquid gold requires some prep time but it pays off.  Oh, does it pay off.  The idea is this:  you dice an abundance of vegetables and line the roasting pan with them, cover with a rack and rest the turkey on the rack so that the juices drip into the vegetables during the cooking process.  Then, while the turkey is resting, you puree the entirety of the pan ingredients, grease and all, in a blender, and that is your gravy thickener!  It should be illegal.  The base is your reduced giblet stock.  It’s so easy and no stress and no raw flour ick and no corn starch yuck, and no intimidating de-glazing and no gizmo-dependent grease/juice separating… I’m telling you.  It’s the BEST.  Don’t be intimidated by the prep work.  I chop all the vegetables for the pan and for the stock the night before and put them in respective zip-loc bags so that Thanksgiving morning, I don’t have to do any more chopping than necessary for other preparations, like stuffing etc.  I strongly recommend this.  I never used to do this, and always was stymied by how long it takes to do this prep the morning of.  Cuts down your turkey morning prep by an hour!

Lining the Pan with your root vegetable gravy thickener...mmmm.  GOLD!

Ingredients for roasting pan:  (if you do this the night before, put all of the vegetable out-takes (see parenthesis below) into a zip-loc bag for your giblet stock, so that you have 2 ziplocs– one for stock, one for pan)

Peel and dice:

1 Turnip

1 Rutabaga

1 Parsnip

2 Carrots (use the ends plus another carrot for giblet stock)

4 Yukon Gold Potatoes

Celery stalks (use the outer tougher stalks for giblet stock)

2 Shallot cloves

2 Garlic cloves

1 Leek (use the white part, and some of the green.  Wash and reserve the tougher top greens for giblet stock)

1 yellow Onion

4 crimini Mushrooms (reserve the stems for giblet stock)

1 cup chopped (Yep):  Parsley (Italian flat leaf), Sage, Rosemary and Thyme—fresh (use the stems/twigs for giblet stock)

1 stick Butter

1 cup dry white Wine

Ingredients for final touches:

Madeira

Sea salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

Liquid:

  • Melt butter in small saucepan and add white wine.  Turn off heat once combined.

Lining your roasting pan:  (gravy gold)

  • Dump the diced veggies into the roasting pan.
  • Pour a cup or so of the warm butter and wine mixture from stove.  Salt/pepper.
  • Stir with a wooden spoon or rubber spatula so that all the veggies are coated. (you don’t want them to dry out during the cooking process, so remember to baste them as well as the bird)
  • Add any additional chopped herbs.  This should coat the pan about an inch thick. 
  • Put the rack on top of this, flat.
  • Put turkey on top and cover with additional butter wine, salt and pepper
Bird stuffed, racked, seasoned, ready to shed its love on its veggies below...
Bird stuffed, racked, seasoned, ready to shed its love on its veggies below…
Giblet stock for gravy base
Giblet stock for gravy base

Giblet Stock:

Ingredients:  (Don’t cheat and use canned broth.  This stock has a very specific flavor and makes the gravy sooooooo good)

Giblets (The gross stuff in the turkey cavity, but get over it.  Your hand is in a turkey cavity!  That’s already gross.)

1 tbs. olive oil

Whole pepper corns

Out-takes from all of the above vegetables and herbs (described in parenthesis above.  Best to put them in zip-loc bags while dicing the rest for the roasting pan the night before, to make prep time faster on Thanksgiving morning.)

Additional sprigs of rosemary and thyme, roughly chopped, stems/twigs included

1 garlic clove– crushed

1 medium yellow onion quartered

1 Yukon gold potato quartered

  • Heat a large saucepan, add olive oil, not butter—too greasy.  When hot, put in the liver.  This needs to be cooked through first.  Then deglaze the pan with Madeira—1/8 cup or so.  This stuff has a lot of flavor and you don’t want it to overwhelm, but it’s perfect for this feast.  Let it cook down—you don’t want the next ingredients to stew in pan, but to sear like the liver seared.  (you might have to add a bit of olive oil again to give it something to cook in)
  • Add the neck and other organs—brown
  • Now add the veggie out-takes plus the additional veggies/herbs described above.
  • Cover with water, a cup of wine, and add a few tablespoonsful of whole peppercorns and a few bay leaves.
  • The trick to any stock is to bring it to a boil, and then drop the heat down so that it is just simmering.  This is going to simmer all
    day.  If it gets too low, then add more water.  Taste it as it cooks to make sure the flavors are coming along.  Add salt/pepper to taste.
  • Keep to about 8 cups total

Gravy:  (drum roll…HERE IT IS!!!  My very own special, time-evolved gravy recipe!)

  • When the turkey is done, remove from the rack and let rest, covered in foil.
  • Remove the rack and put all the pan-liner veggies/fluids in a blender and puree
  • Put a large bowl (preferably one with a pouring spout) in the sink with a colander on top of it.
  • Strain the giblet stock.
  • Pour the stock into a small/medium saucepan—should be about 8 cups of stock
  • Add 3 tbs. or so of Madeira and lots of fresh ground pepper (a tbs. or so)
  • Cook down for a few minutes.
  • Now grab your whisk, and whisk in the puree, little by little until you get the right consistency. 
    Swimming in turkey goodness.  Now for the blender...
    Swimming in turkey goodness. Now for the blender…
    Veggies from roasting pan to blender-- pureed heaven
    Veggies from roasting pan to blender– pureed heaven

It is absolute magic and you never need any flour or anything else for thickener!!!  Secret shared!  Now pass it on to future generations!  Say you learned it from an old friend who wrote.

 

And here...it...is!
And here…it…is!
Gravy happiness.  Happy cooking to all!  May you share it with loved ones!
Gravy happiness. Happy cooking to all! May you share it with loved ones!

 

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The “Me Time” Medal: a week of wellness

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What does it take, I wonder, to just…stop?  To stop the madness of pushing buttons and swiping, clicking, scrolling from one screen to the next, taking trains, planes, and automobiles here and there and everywhere, booking that appointment up against the one before it and the one after it…instead of taking that hour to…eat?  Take a walk?  Stretch?  Or not do anything at all except…breathe?

I never thought of myself as a multi-tasker.  I left the rat race before I ever fully joined it.  I moved to a place that people yearn for, but only after they’ve lived in the “real world,” building careers and relationships and families in cities and suburbs– the Montana prize at the end of it, not the beginning of it.  Still, my kids make fun of me now during our Facetime calls.  “Let me guess, Mom.  You’re doing twenty-five thousand things at once.”

“Me?  No.  I am not.  I’m just…you know…running my business.  And writing two books.  And getting ready for my next retreat.  And paying my bills.  And booking my ticket for the Morocco Haven writing retreat.  And finding an Air B&B in Marrakech.  And researching the best and cheapest snow blower because I’m not going through another Montana winter without a snow blower.  And…”

They roll their eyes and laugh at me from my laptop on the kitchen counter, so it’s almost like they’re here again, doing the same thing.

“Huh.  Am I really that person?”

“Uh…what do you think?” my daughter says.

“You’re a chronic multi-tasker, Mom.  Admit it,” my son says.  “And it’s getting worse.”

“We’re worried about you,” she adds.

“Oh don’t be worried about me!  I love my work.  I love all of it.  And now that you’ve all fledged the nest, I’m told that there’s this thing called Me Time.  I think I could get used to that idea.  Oh, and don’t let me forget– I made Bolognese sauce and froze it last night.  For Christmas.  Oh, and I need to book your flights.”

“Mom.  We’re old enough to book our own flights.  And are you really taking care of yourself?  I mean, are you sick?  You sound sick.”

“Oh, it’s just a little cold.”  I’ve been holding it back, but I let out a bone rattling hack.  “Sorry.  What were you saying?  Oh yeah.  Flights.  Well, I’ll pay for them.  I’ll give you my credit card.”

“That cough sounds nasty.  You need to take a day off.  Have you even eaten today?”

“I had a smoothie this morning.”  The tides have turned, I guess.  I tell them that I’m fine.  I’m just run down.  I’ve just finished a seven week work marathon, leading four five day retreats and traveling to Minneapolis to do events, and I have a cold.  “My energy level is fine.  It sounds worse than it is.”

I.       Am.         Lying.

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The truth is, I’m sick as a dog.  I got back from my last business trip, and hit the wall.  I’ve been lying in bed for three days with a roll of toilet paper, (ran out of Kleenex), various and random tinctures and likely-expired remedies (my eyes are too goopy to see the fine print), Mason jars of water and Emergen-C, Tiger Balm, and something called Gypsy Cream that my friend made and which my raw nose really likes.  My eyes ache so I can’t effectively look at my computer.  I’m too tired to drive into town for supplies.  I haven’t been this flat-out ill in years.  It reminds me of being sick as a child—all set up in my parents’ bed watching The Price is Right and All My Children and General HospitalOnly there are no parents to take care of me now.

I make that thought go away and try to think light, un-pathetic things, like:  Do people even watch soap operas and game shows these days?

In the last three days, I’ve tried to find out—to make myself succumb to brain mush.  To let this cold be a gift of…Me Time.

I last about three minutes.  All those commercials with the women in creased khakis and pressed linen button-downs, happily scouring their white bathroom floors with one errant strand of hair fallen across their line-less foreheads.  Bleck.  Those women don’t exist and if any woman on earth thinks they do…they are in for abject and relentless PAIN when they wake up from the dream.

I turn the TV off so quickly, so allergically, that I wonder:  Was I in some sort of a motherhood dream?  Have I suddenly woken up, now that the last child is gone?  Because I’m in a lot of pain, and not just in my lungs.  It’s in my heart.  Not the one that beats.  The one that wants it all back, just for one day.  Those little babies climbing all over me so that there’s no time to do anything other than just blissfully be with them.  The ones who are telling me now that I’m a serial multi-tasker.  The ones who are worried about me.

IMG_3782I stare at the snow.  I really can’t let that snow stack up.  And I really need to get those airplane tickets.  And I have three business calls that I really need to take this afternoon.  I’ll just push Mute when I have to cough.  How hard is it to take calls in bed?  They won’t know, anyway.  They’ll think I’m in some sort of writerly Montana She Shack.  With distressed barn wood and black and white photos of Hemingway and Gertrude Stein and Anais Nin.  Instead of balled-up toilet paper all around me, and pillows which have lost their cases in the mayhem of all this tossing and turning and coughing and blowing.  And self-pity.

But this cold won’t let me lie to myself.  It only lets me lie in bed.  Just like my children have prescribed.

When I have the energy to move, I make bone broth and tea and slog up to bed again.  I’ve lost my sense of taste.  Even my lover, Earl Grey, tastes like mucus.  Everything tastes like mucus.  My head feels like it weighs twenty pounds.  I should probably cave and take cold medicine, which I hate.  But I don’t even have cold medicine in the house.  I’ve always told my kids that we should feel our symptoms so that we are true to them.  “We need to honor our bodies, not pretend we’re fine, when we’re not.”  When did I become such a hypocrite?  Was it the minute I dropped my second child off at college and came home to Empty Nest?

My kids text me later.  “You okay?”

This is new.

“I’m fine,” I repeat.  “I’m about to take a nap.”

Which I don’t.  Instead I stare at the snow melting on the roof, trying to think Me Time Empty Nest thoughts:  I need to search ebay for a cheap snow blower.  Does that count?IMG_3782

And then, in the way back of my mucus-y mind, in my grandmother’s southern drawl, I hear:  “Dear.  I’m worried about your mother.  She works too hard.  She needs to take a rest.”  I remember thinking as a child that, based on the sternness in my grandmother’s brow, we had a real problem on our hands:  that my mother might even die from hard work.  That maybe there was no medal at the end of all her achievements, even though it seemed like she was going after one.  She always seemed like she was medal-worthy to me.  But my grandmother’s worry felt more important than any work—even change-the-world work.

My God.  Are they worried about me the way I was worried about my mother?  Am I passing the baton to my kids and are they insisting that this incessant hard-work-to-the-point-of-self-violence gene needs to end?

Because, just like her, I’m always throat-high in a project.  Or three.  Or yes, maybe even twenty-five thousand.  Always more blue blocks on my Google calendar than white ones.  I heard Joan Rivers say on a talk show once something to the tune of, “When I have an empty calendar, I’ll know my life is over.”  Am I like that? I wonder, watching the gutters do their job.  Frankly, they look tired too.

I don’t think of myself as a workaholic.  I mean, I live in Montana.  I work in my pajamas a lot of the time– don’t even own a business suit.  I drive a totaled truck and stop it often, on the side of the road, to take in the unabashed beauty of big sky country.  I spent years playing with my kids on the floor, reading with them and singing with them and snuggling with them.  Yes, I worked out of the home, but I was always just a few steps away if they needed me, and once they went to school, I worked on my career, yes, but I never missed a recital or a school program, and hardly missed a game.  I was that mom.

IMG_3782But now that they’re gone…have I put the pedal to the floor instead of allowing myself to be in neutral for a while?  And…if I’m being brutally honest…do I really want to get to know myself again, outside of my motherhood and my work?  And while I’m at it…since I can no longer bury myself in my motherhood, have I now buried myself in work so that I don’t have to be in this thing called Empty Nest, the memories lurking in every surface of this home?  Most of them so joyous.  Some of them, so not.  Am I going to be a total disaster at Me Time?

What would it take for me to actually…enjoy this Empty Nest?  This Me Time.  People tell me that it’s time to be selfish.  I have a friend who said, just before my son left for college, “I’m going to check on you every week and see if you’re doing something just for you.  Something new and different, to get to know yourself outside of your motherhood and your career.”

“I’m planning on having more time to write and publish books.  And travel.”

“I don’t mean writing.  Or traveling.  I mean at home.  Something you haven’t tried before, right where you live.”

“Like what?” I asked her, truly blank.

She smiled.  “Like…tango lessons.  Like…fly-fishing.  Something just for you.”

Huh.

“I take a bath every night.  Does that count?  I can’t get enough of Modern Family and Anthony Bourdain (may he rest in peace) re-runs.  There are stacks of books on my bedside table.  Which I read hungrily.  I write every morning.  These are all ways of taking care of myself.  Aren’t they?”

“Mmmmm.  You need to do something…new.”  She knows.  She believed in newness so much that she left her job in Chicago and moved, solo, to Montana.  I’ve never seen her so happy.

IMG_3782Lying here, blowing my nose and feeling so inert, so unproductive and blob-ish– I wonder if I thought that there would be a medal at the end of motherhood.  Like graduation.  Like people would stand up for you and clap and give you a fancy scroll that you can frame and hang on the wall to prove your hard work.  And I wonder, since that doesn’t exist, if I have just succeeded in transferring all of that gumption, all of those hours that I’m no longer parenting day to day, into my career.  Sure looks like it, I think, staring at the snow melting.  And it also sure looks like my body’s not having it.  At all.

So I give in and just allow the last seven weeks to flicker by like a home movie on the snowy roof:  I dropped my son off at college, came back, and two days later began my work marathon.  I worked intimately with over fifty women in my five day and one day retreats and workshops.  I gave them everything I possibly could give.  I loved it like I loved…well, my motherhood.  I always do.

But in planning my fall schedule last year, I must have been absolutely terrified of Empty Nest because from September to December, there were pretty much only blue blocks on my Google calendar.  No white ones– not after 6:00 am or before 8:00 pm.  And no green ones at all– the places where my motherhood used to live.  I colored everything blue with Work.  I don’t remember doing it.  But I must have looked at those white spaces and gone Marsha Brady, filling it all in to the brim.  Never a moment to stop.

And now…surprise:  I’m sick.  It’s such a beautiful sunny snow day.  I could be out playing in it instead of lying here feeling miserable.

I breathe in and let out a long emphysema-sounding sigh.  What if I use this illness to practice on?  What if, just for this week, I cleared those blue blocks to white space, and didn’t fill them with anything?  I mean really…nothing.  Not even the Food Network.  Or Netflix.  Or even a bath.  My retreat season is over.  All of the blue blocks are things that can wait, at least a week.  What if I allowed myself to just lie here and watch the snow melting off the roof and felt my infected lungs rising and falling and let myself feel grateful for each breath that doesn’t erupt in a hack.

For one solid week…what if I didn’t write anything or read anything or do anything or try to be anything, outside of well?  What if this white-spaced nothing…is the medal?  The Me Time Medal.  What did Winnie the Pooh say?  “Doing nothing often leads to the very best of something.”  And then, after I’m over this cold…what if I kept it going—this commitment to the white blocks of nothing?  Sure, there’ll be blue blocks.  I like it that way and my bank account requires it too.  But what if I learned to value the white just as much?

IMG_3782I ask us all, because I’ll just bet that you can relate:  Do we have to get sick to stop?  Or can we just stop for no reason other than:  we know we need to.  We know it’s good for us.  We want to be good to ourselves.  And if we are…maybe the “medal” is wellness.  Happiness.  Peace.  We can at least try.

So for just this moment: 

Just…let your chest rise and fall. 

Feel your heart beating. 

Let your heavy head fall back. 

You don’t have to hold it up right now. 

Something can hold you.

I’ll try it too.  Today, all day, right after I do this writing thing that I know is good for me, but that I also know is still a way of doing not being…I’m going to let my head fall into pillows, close my eyes.  Breathe.  Be.  And let my body heal.

Maybe tango lessons next week.  Who knows.

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Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats Montana  2019!  (special holiday discounts!!!!)

Come join me in Montana and find your voice! Write your book! Court your muse…all under the big sky.  You do not have to be a writer to come to Haven.  Just a seeker…longing for community, inspiration, support, and YOUR unique form of self-expression using your love of the written word!

March 20-24
May 8-12
June 12-16
June 26-30
Sept 18-22
Sept 25-29

Go here for more info and to set up a call with Laura! 

***Haven Wander:  Morocco is full.

 

 

pooh

 

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“Allow Yourself To Be Spelled Differently” A Fable in Two Parts

Processed with VSCO with c1 preset(Borrowed from my journal on an island in Greece, 1986)

Once upon a time, there was a wildly curious but wildly terrified nineteen year old girl.  She realized one day that her curiosity was more wild than her terror, so she decided to throw it away and step full force into her wonder.

She started to make choices that didn’t please anyone but herself.  For once.  She started to do things that people questioned, and even berated her for, because they weren’t what she was “supposed” to do or be.  She was even called “selfish” just for choosing to do what she really wanted to do.  It wasn’t like she was doing anything illegal or cruel.  Just stuff she really wondered about.  And wanted to learn from and fasten to her heart.  And even things that she longed to become.  Oh well.

She decided then and there that she would allow herself to be wildly misunderstood.  Because she started to see that life was going to be heartbreaking and beautiful all at the same time, and if she didn’t make choices that served her, then she’d never make it through in any way that felt true.  And THAT was more scary than anything she’d ever imagined.

So one by one…choice by choice, she went.  Sometimes she found herself very much alone because of it, and yes, misunderstood.  But there were glorious gifts along the way:  in people, places, moments of pure joy.  And every so often, she even felt…special.  Not in the ways she was supposed to be special.  But just…special.  Alone in it.  But she was not sure if she liked that part.

So she started filling up pages and pages of blank books.  She was never without her blank books—sometimes just simple pamphlets she picked up, and sometimes hand-made, leather-bound books.  Always blank though.  Never lined.  She’d had enough of the restrictions and requirements of lines.  She needed her thoughts and her words to be big and loopy and unabashed.

It was the beginning of her freedom.

And yes, it came with a cost.  She knew it would.  But what was the alternative?  A life spent making everyone else happy, staying neatly and precisely and preciously in their parameters?  She knew that pursuit would never work, because it would never be enough for those people.  She would be always dancing.  Always trying to be a greater swan for people who wanted her to be a swan.  She did not want to be a swan.

So she cut her hair and bought a bunch of baggy clothes, and a backpack, and went overseas.  She was only nineteen, so she didn’t have a lot of choices in the take-to-the road department, but she chose Turkey over other people’s Switzerland, and Greece over other people’s France, and a troubled Yugoslavia over other people’s London.  And she did a lot of it…“alone” but always with her journal.  She liked it that way.  Her journal didn’t judge.  It didn’t blame.  It didn’t ask anything of her but to fill up its pages.  And even then, it didn’t really ask.  It just offered the possibility of its page and called her to put pen to it in whatever way she wanted.  Because the truth was…she still cared what people thought of her.  Shhhhh…. It’s her dirty secret.

Processed with VSCO with c1 preset

(Borrowed from my journal, 2018…inspired by the above)

Once upon a time, there was a wildly terrified and wildly curious fifty-two year old woman.  She had raised two wildly free children and that had been her life’s goal, outside of being a writer and hopefully a published author.  She had achieved her goals.  And now she was alone with her journal all over again.  She didn’t know why she was so scared.  She had a cozy home in the mountains of Montana in a lovely little town full of remarkable souls.  She had time on her hands after a long time with no time on her hands.

Time.

How to spend it so that her fear would quell, and her wonder would find itself again.  In fact, maybe that was what she was so scared of:  how to make her time matter now.  She wanted to matter.  But she didn’t want to matter in the way the world said we should matter:  in currency that was not unlike what she left all those years ago.  The currency of swans.  Beauty.  Grace.  Being the special bird.  For her, it had been by being the different bird.  She was beginning to see that in all of her choices, she had never really stopped wanting to be special.  Special for following the rules.  Special for not following the rules.  Special for making up her own rules.  Special for achieving excellence in her own rules.

What if she wasn’t special?  What would that be like?  What if she was totally unremarkable?  What if she did what she wanted to do, not as a reaction to what she was supposed to do, but rather, simply because she wanted to do it for herself and for no big reason?  What if she didn’t care what people thought of her at all?  For real this time.

So, like her nineteen year old self, she decided to go far away from home.  She had always wanted to go to Morocco.  Something about the color and the spices and the Moorish architecture she’d seen as a child in Spain.  She wanted to sit for a long time in places that didn’t require anything from her…and just be.  Allow herself to be “spelled differently,” as the poet Emma Mellon suggests.  She wanted to go alone with her journal and write on park benches and on ancient steps, under towering archways, and under olive trees’ shade.  She wanted to bum around and not have plans.  Maybe take a nap in a park instead of always doing doing doing.  She wanted to be be be.  In fact, she knew she had to.  It was the cure for her fear.  Her fear of being not this, not that, not this, not that.  But simply and purely:  just her.

In short:  she needed to re-introduce herself to herself and she needed to have all of the usuals removed.  Except for her journal and those blank pages.  They were the best way she knew to look into her eyes and welcome them as the windows to the soul she longed to finally come home to.

So…this February…she is going.  Someone is taking care of her cozy home and she is going to pack a small bag, and get on a plane and wind her way to Morocco for a month.  For a week within that month, she will share writing with seven women who are similar seekers, perhaps also longing to “allow themselves to be spelled differently.”  She’s not exactly sure what she will find there, and that’s the very reason why she is going.  She hopes she will find her wonder again.  And cast fear aside so that the future can give itself to her.  Maybe she’ll now, finally, be truly free.

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Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats Montana  2019!

Come join me in Montana and find your voice! Write your book! Court your muse…all under the big sky.  You do not have to be a writer to come to Haven.  Just a seeker…longing for community, inspiration, support, and YOUR unique form of self-expression using your love of the written word!

March 20-24
May 8-12
June 12-16
June 26-30
Sept 18-22
Sept 25-29

Go here for more info and to set up a call with Laura! 

***Haven Wander:  Morocco is full.

 

 

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