Tag Archives: Haven Writing Retreat

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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An Empty House: This I dread


Haven-4-1024x1024“I’m going to be fine in empty nest.  Don’t worry about me out here in Montana in my farmhouse.  I’ve got my writing.  I’ve got my writing retreats.  I’ve got my horses.  I love my land.  I’m going to travel the world.  It’s time for me again.”

That’s what I tell people.

That’s what I tell myself.

Inside, I’m terrified.  It seeps in at 4:00 a.m. when I wake most nights, when the fears are immune to my internal motherly “hush now.”  My mind isn’t just racing, it’s hauling ass down every dark alley I am able to avoid in daylight.  It’s trapped in this labyrinth of panic by Fear incarnate and it wants OUT.  And it’s not bills and health and aging and the other usuals.  It’s this dwindling last flame on the last wick of my motherhood.  And it’s the last light out of this Fear-mongered labyrinthine haunt.

How am I going to do this ‘being alone’ thing?  How am I going to feel secure without that last child’s room full?  That boy who wakes up in the morning and wants an egg sandwich, and a lovingly filled lunchbox– his sandwich cut in half and a Honeycrisp apple, not a Gala. A little bag of carrots and that note that I sometimes write, but not usually anymore, because I don’t want to embarrass him around his friends. Or make them feel sad that they don’t have a mother who does that for them.  I’m letting my motherhood go. I feel it.  Some mornings I make his lunch the night before, and put out cereal on the kitchen table with a note:  Have a nice day.  And I peek my head into his room in the glow of computer and cell screens and say, “I’m going to sleep in tomorrow.  I have a long day of work and I need my sleep.”  But what I’m really saying is, “This thing is crushing me.  I need to prepare.  I can’t go cold turkey.  I need to know that you can do this on your own.  I need to know that I can do this alone.”073db487f4c4c2354d17ccad8d24eb24

And he can.  Of course he can.  I always said I was raising adults.  Flexible, adaptable, adults.  I let them use knives early.  I literally touched their fingers to the hot stove so that they would learn.  On my terms, I guess.  I wanted to get it over with.  But what about me?  Am I going to take to my bed?  Am I going to have long dark nights of the soul like I did after my father died? I can’t bear those.  Will I feel unexplained joy, the way you do when your motherhood gets served to you in surprise heaping plates—when they crawl into bed with you on a Sunday morning, all six feet of them, and want to just “hang out?”  When they come into your office and sit down in the same chair they used to when they were little, and start talking about their day, on and on, knowing that you care, that you’ll listen, that you are their only and forever mother?  Are those moments all over now?  Will I have to manufacture them on the phone or on vacations?  The mundane, the holy mundane, of my motherhood is going in five…four…three…two…

You know when you are about to leave a relationship or a place, and you start to look at all the things you can’t stand about it?  How you’re going to be better off without it?  “Never liked that neighbor.  I’ll be better off without all that ridiculous traffic.  Can’t stand the way he eats.  Never wanted a cat anyway.”

I’m doing that with my motherhood.

And I think my son is doing it with his childhood.

We’re butting heads where we usually can find humor.  We’re finding fault where we normally make spaciousness for each other.  I’m getting rip-shit-mad over dishes in the sink.  I don’t get rip-shit-mad as a rule.  I am a Talker-through-er.  A Let’s-sit-down-and-have-a-heart-to-heart-er, kind of mother.  Some would say too lenient.  But I have always set my sites on trust and not blame.  Trust is what will bring my relationship with my children into the future, fortified and stalwart.  My go-to line:  “We all screw up.  It’s how we act around it that matters.”  I know that when people get rip-shit-mad it’s because they’re afraid.  So here I am…being afraid.  Apparently dishes are as scary as that dark 4:00 a.m. Fear monster.

I remember my daughter acting this way her senior year. Nothing I did was right.  And when your offenses are small, it’s like, “I can’t believe we have to have lamb chops again.  And why are they always medium rare? And why do you have to have that stupid jazz on in the background?  And why do we have to go to Belize for Spring Break when all my friends are going to Cabo?”  And now, neither of us can barely remember that blip in our relationship. Now it’s all humor and love and forgiveness and open-heartedness. I have every faith that it will be that way with my son.  He’s ready to fly.  I know.  I know.  But still…

073db487f4c4c2354d17ccad8d24eb24Last night, I lay there at 4:00 a.m., the Fear chasing me down those dark alleys:  no more boy in the house.  No more impromptu dance moves around the kitchen—and he can finally dip me!  No more “Let’s meet in town and have a special dinner, just you and me.”  No more “Mom, I have an orchestra concert. You should come.”  No more baseball.  So much baseball.  I’ve measured my life in innings every spring/summer for the past twelve years.  I love it and I loathe it.  My life is already so sedentary as a writer.  All that sitting.  My back is already a wreck.

And my eyes blinked open wide.  No more baseball.  Hmmm….

What else is there going to be no more of?

Well heck— might as well.

And I grabbed my journal from my bed-side table and went for it.  It’s raw, but I’m sharing it with you.  Maybe it will help you.  Don’t judge.

No more mayonnaise at 7:00 a.m.

No more moldy lunchboxes showing up on the counter.

No more “Sign this form. It’s already late. Hurry.”

No more fifteen pairs of sneakers strewn in the breezeway.

No more being ignored for the glow of screens.

No more “Why don’t we have any food?” when there’s an entire freezer and pantry full of it. (#malepatternblindness)

No more “I forgot my cleats.  They’re under my bed.  Can you drop them off at the office?  Like…in ten minutes?”

No more “Can I stay out until 1:00 am?”

No more “No way. Midnight, latest.”

No more “Calm down.  Everyone else is allowed to stay out until 1:00.”

No more “Will the parents be there?”

No more “I think so.”

No more “Midnight.  Drive carefully, please. The roads are icy.”

No more “I’m okay, but the car isn’t.”

No more teenaged lumps lying on couches until noon on a Saturday, eating pancakes with hooded sweatshirts on and sometimes a thank you.  Sticky plates in the sink.

Who am I kidding.

I’m going to miss those sticky plates.  I’m going to miss those thank you’s when they come.  I’m going to miss driving in to school to save the day.  And yes…I’m going to miss baseball.  I’m going to roam around those stands when he’s gone, and wish I could sit all day in the blazing sun hearing all that “Go kiiiiiid” and “You got this, kiiiiiiid,” and “Bring ‘er home, kiiiiiiid.”  Who am I kiiiiiding.

It’s morning.  It’s Sunday.  He’s on a bus going to an Orchestra showcase in Bozeman, Montana.  Probably with his sweatshirt hood over his head, drooling on his baseball pillowcase, headphones on.

So I call him.  And he answers.

“How are the roads?”

“Not bad. But it’s snowing pretty hard.”

Quick prayer to the bus driver. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to sleep. Listening to tunes.”

“I hope not Rap.  And not too loud.  You’re going to ruin your ears.”

“Calm down, Mom.  I’m listening to the Brahms song that we’re playing.”

Gulp.  “Brahms wrote the lullaby I used to sing to you every night.”

Silence.

Not gonna cry.  Not gonna cry.  “I’m really going to miss you next year, you know.”

“I know.  I’m going to miss you too.”

“We going to be okay.  We’re going to be better than okay.  Onward!”

“Yeah.  Onward.”

“Text when you get there.”

“I will.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

So now what?  A Sunday morning in early February.  I’m alone.  In bed.  Propped up in old smelly pillows.  What’s left of my tea is cold.  The snow is gently falling.  Do I sob?  Because you can bet, I’m crying writing this.  I could sing that Brahms lullaby and spend hours bawling my eyes out.  But I don’t think I will.  Not today.  I have a book to write.  And a quiet house.  All day.

A quiet house.

So I go downstairs to make my second cup of Earl Grey tea, sending a whisper to myself next February.  You’re going to be okay.  This isn’t going to hurt as much as you think.  Go cup of tea by cup of tea, page by page, word by word, gentle (and yes motherly) thought by gentle thought.  It’s time to mother yourself now.  

But for now…I’m scared.  And I’m taking all the advice I can get from those who have been here.  Comments appreciated!

Love, Laura

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Come wander in your words at a Haven Writing Retreat in 2018!

You don’t have to be a writer to come. Just a seeker who dearly longs for your voice.
Now Booking Haven I Retreats 2018! Click here for more info.

February 28-4 (full)
April 18-22 (still room)
May 16-20 (one spot left)
September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

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Haven 4:00 a.m.

Haven (4)Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2018

You do NOT have to be a writer to come– just a seeker who loves the written word, and trusts the power of the wilderness of our Montana Haven to inspire the wilderness of your unique mind!  Come find your voice this February…  For more info, and to contact the Haven team, go here!  The best holiday gift I can imagine…

February 28-4 (a few spaces left)
April 18-22
May 16-20
September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

I wake up most every night at 4:00 a.m., and have as long as I can remember.  It can be scary there, in that raw, nascent, dark of night.  It’s when I feel most alone.  As a child, I would listen for the Milwaukee Railroad in the distance, just to know there was someone else awake at that hour.  And it would lull me back to sleep.

I wake for different reasons:

Usually it’s because I’m dreaming something that I know I need to pay attention to, and somehow my conscious mind pulls me out of my unconscious concoction where the world is as weird as it is profound.  Some strand of reality calls and says, “That’s enough of that.  You wandered enough into the wilderness of your creative unconscious.  Now wake up, and stare into the moonlit room of your real world, and lie there in the soft safe pillows and see what it had to teach you.”  It’s a different kind of seeing, in the dark, when you are still more soul than flesh.  Like being born.

Maybe your heart is racing, and you brought yourself back to reality because you thought you might die, being chased like that.  Maybe you saw something you didn’t want to see, and like the hero on her journey, you needed to come back with the elixir to save something of yourself before day wakes.  Maybe you bound yourself into such an impossible situation that you beckoned yourself back into a less complicated world, but with the clear understanding that your real life is just as impossible in its own way, and it’s time to stop the madness.  In every case, what I have dreamed is so exact that I can’t help but believe in a parallel universe.  I mean, how could I have just imagined this house and every single detail of it, when I’ve never laid eyes on it before?  It doesn’t really matter.  I only know that I have.  And that there’s quite likely something to learn from it.  Sometimes I come out of a dream laughing.  Sometimes, I’m weeping.  I believe that I am working out something in my dreams that I’m not quite able to in my life.

Sometimes I wake at 4:00 a.m. dreamless, because the moon is full and it’s shining in my window and flooding my bed in shadows.  Then I just lie there and trace the silhouettes of the fir trees that tower around my house.  I’ve been told that the lungs are replenishing themselves at 4:00 in the morning, so I take deep breaths, usually like this:  in 1..2..3..4..hold 1..2..3..4..exhale 1..2..3..4…  Sometimes I repeat a line to go with the breathing—something I need.  Often it’s Julian of Norwich’s:   all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.

4:00 a.m. finds me in a trance.  An in-between place.  Untethered.  Where I meet myself outside of the everything else.  I lie there in that trance, pushing back against full consciousness, and try to receive what there is to feel, know, fear, learn.  But without purchase.  This is the time to let it wash over me to the shores of the waking hour, still far away.  I lie there and let my unconscious mind give itself to my conscious one, however scary, strange, symbolic, even if I forget it by morning.  It’s okay to forget.  I know that what I experience in that trance stays with me in a woven way.  Unseen.  But sometimes there is something so powerful there, that I know I have to keep it close.  So I write it down on a notepad I keep next to my bed.  I don’t turn on the light.  I don’t want to wake fully up.  So sometimes I can’t exactly read every word the next day.  But the gist of it is there.

And every so often, in that 4:00 a.m. trance, something hatches that I know is as holy as I know holy to be.  Whether by dream or moonlight or breathing or words, that suspension between dreams and complete waking delivers a pure thought which can’t help but summon an idea.  A pretty good idea.  Whole books have come to me in that trance time.  The design for my writing retreats came to me in that between place.  Often I am delivered a sentence of truth that I know I have to use somehow, if only for my motherhood, or my own navigation of life.

So I’ve been starting my day by writing down what it feels like to wake up on those shores.  Back to reality, whatever that is.  Sometimes it’s one line.  Sometimes it’s a long riff.  It’s not a crafted piece with a beginning, middle, and end.  It doesn’t have a narrative trajectory, or a thoughtful premise or landing place.  It’s a piece of ash flying up from a fire and floating a bit on the heat thermals before it falls and joins the ground.  These trance-thoughts are ungrounded, but maybe more grounded than I know.  After decades of this 4:00 a.m. floating, I have learned not to feel so alone there, not to feel so scared.  Instead, it’s my safe haven for whatever needs to show itself, and why I love the word haven so much.  We all need one, yes in the world, but also in ourselves.  So from my 4:00 a.m. to yours…Haven (4)

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Full Nest

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Listen to the sounds of my Montana marsh

Every spring when the birds come back I feel so grateful, and also, a little bewildered.  Are we really that worthy?  How can they leave Belize or Costa Rica and do quick fly overs in New Mexico and Arizona and want to brave the jagged frozen Rockies and the turbulence and the cold to come back to Montana?  How can they look down over white-out and say, “There.  That’s where I’ll land.  That’s where I’ll make my home and my family and teach them everything—absolutely everything.  And then send them off.  And then empty my nest of even me and leave again…back down to the desert and to the jungle and to the sea.  Only to do it again.”

Just when I’m thinking that I can’t stand it one more day—my life in infinite shades of grey, ice shrapnel defining my every winter step….they come back, casting their votes on this place I call home without migration.  They need this place of echoes and countenance I guess, to do the work of their lives.  As they’re heading north, I’m telling myself I need what they’ve had– color and light and for my body to be winged and nimble…and not braced against the air outside my front door.  I’m tired of my daily buck up—the forced flinging open of my front door every morning to feel Montana’s fresh slap—you’re alive and you can take it.   So that I can be grateful then, for the retreat back to the warm woodstove breath of my house.  Even in spring.  It won’t be a warm outside welcome for months.  Not Belize warm.  A Canada goose stands on the ice of the pond in the meadow.  A mountain bluebird on my hoar-frost encased mailbox.  I look at the chickadees and ravens and magpies and flickers—are we really worthy of all their faith?

I have watched.  For twenty-five years I have watched.  I know them by their faces, their nests and feathers and flocking.  I know their symphony, and sometimes Stravinsky cacophony that is the world outside my door beginning in March.  Oh that cunning allegro, oh that fine mezzo again, oh that tricky staccato followed by that day-is-done decrescendo.  But I have never really learned who is singing what.  I don’t know why.  It’s similar to the way I go through an art museum:  take it in first.  Then step forward to read the plaque.  What’s in a name, if you don’t feel your way to it first?  It was the same way with trees and wildflowers when I moved to Montana.  I needed to feel the wholeness of it all and know it by season.  Know that when the dandelions are out, that the bears are coming to the avalanche chutes.  Know that when the calypso orchids are blooming, it will be time to celebrate my first born’s birthday.

But yesterday, it was time to know the symphony by its players.  It overcame me like a long lived itch that I suddenly needed to relieve.  I don’t know exactly why and maybe it doesn’t matter.  Maybe because I’m finishing a novel I’ve been writing for two years and I already miss its characters.  Maybe it’s because a year from now, my youngest child will be planning his college migration.  For whatever reason, yesterday, I sequestered myself to my bed and cranked open the window as wide as it would go.  And I listened to the marsh below, piece meal.  Song by song.  All day.  Picking out their riffs and going on the internet to birding websites to hear the songs from the singers I suspected.

Who knew that a little thing like a nuthatch made that roadrunner’s meeep meeep?  I’d thought it must be a furry creature all these years, slicing through the forest’s music.  And that upward aria I’ve heard for so long, usually at dusk?  A little thrush I’ve never laid eyes on but who surely lives in my back yard, faithfully and hopefully:  the Swainson’s thrush.  I knew the bossy red-winged blackbirds, of course, because how can you miss them?  And the ubiquitous robin’s song.  You have to be paying no attention at all to miss those.  And the chickadee’s my tree, this time of year.  But the one I really wanted to know, was what I’ve always thought must be our western version of the mockingbird—that schizophrenic song that doesn’t know quite what it wants to say.  And yet it says it over and over.  I scoured the internet and my bird books trying to find what bird was behind this rote sentence in too many genres.  I’ve always wanted to tell it to settle on one.  I like the poetry at the end, personally, not the throat-clearing at the beginning, or the screeching in the middle.  I figured it had to be something rare.  Something elusive.  Maybe even exotic that I’d missed in all my wandering in the woods, looking up, paying attention.

Finally, at the end of the day I thought, What about a sparrow?  A regular old sparrow.  What song do they sing?  And you guessed it.  That one.

My son came in and said, “What are you doing?”

“Learning my bird songs finally.  Did you know that the most simple birds make the most unique songs?  And the smallest make the loudest.  And the biggest birds, sometimes the faintest.”

“I’m going skiing.  It’s the last day the mountain is open.”

“We need to make that list of colleges to look at, you know.  Soon.”

“I know.”

Then my daughter wrote me a text from her college dorm room in California.  “I’m going camping for my birthday.  You know I swam with a blue whale over spring break in Baja.  I don’t think I told you.”

And I wrote her back, “I’m so proud of you.  I hope you know that.”

And I thought…maybe it’s time to learn them all…so I can say a proper good bye.  Because they come back, you know.  They come back.

Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2017

June 7-11 (a few spaces left)

June 21-25 (a few spaces left)

September 6-10, 20-24

October 4-8, 18-22

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Fierce at 50

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Now booking 2017 Haven Writing Retreats!

February 22-26 (full with wait list)
June 7-11
June 21-25
September 6-10
September 20-24
 October 4-8
October 18-22

       To schedule a phone call to learn more about the retreat, go to the Contact Us button here.

I’m taking a break in the Haven Winter Blog series today to reflect on passion, power, age, and to shine a light on a new friend…

Today is the launch of #TheFierce50, a movement dedicated to women 50 and over who are thriving, creating and celebrating where they are in life.  I was selected along with a fierce group of women including Lee WoodruffKathy Kahler and Denise Austin to be among #TheFierce50. We each were paired with a fellow #Fierce50 blogger and given the honor to write about her. I was thrilled to be paired with Katheen Baty, one seriously fierce woman.  After we got off the phone (3 hours!), I wrote this piece.  Click here to read more about The Fierce50 Movement.

I turned fifty last year.  Some people say fifty is the new thirty.  What I know about being fifty, is that I have accumulated enough life experience to know some things, and to learn from them, and to find my true purpose because of them.  Unfortunately, most of the things that have brought me to this confluence of self, had to do with pain.  Is pain really gain?  Is it true that what doesn’t kill you actually makes you stronger?  I would like to think that we’d be stronger from a long walk in the woods, or lunch with a good friend, or floating on our back in the Caribbean.  But while those moments help me to be present, or to process the past and imagine the future…they’re not what has helped me find my way.  It’s the hard stuff that has.  It’s standing in the places where I feel recycled and spat out and spent, and sometimes bashed bloody from hitting walls I somehow haven’t learned don’t have doorways, that have shaken me awake to the basics of self-sustainability.

Is there a cure for this?  Maybe.  Maybe it’s passion.  Maybe it’s knowing what you love and what brings you into true delight and thirst for life…and mining that no matter what’s going on in your life.  For me, that passion has been writing.  It is what holds me together and always has.  I have said many times, “Don’t wait for the rug to get ripped out from underneath you to find your passions.  When I went through re-invention 101, I’m glad that my passions were in a row, even if my ducks weren’t.”  That’s when I wrote my way through a brutal time of my life and my career as a published author took flight, and that’s when I started my Haven Writing Retreats.  At Haven, I teach people to find their voice, their passion, their sustainability through writing, in whatever form they choose—journals, essays, books etc.  But there are other ways.

A woman who knows perhaps more about this than any of us want to, is the remarkable Kathleen Baty who for eight years underwent brutal stalking until she was finally kidnapped at gunpoint.  Did she let it take her down?  No way.  Instead she learned every possible aspect of personal safety to stay alive, worked with Law Enforcement because there were no laws at that time making stalking a crime, and eventually testified at the state and federal level to pass the Anti Stalking Laws.  Talk about turning pain into passion!

But she didn’t stop there.  She started her company, SafetyChick Enterprises, LLC in order to  change the way personal safety and crime prevention was embraced by women. Instead of marketing to fear, the SafetyChick Brand promotes strength, courage and common sense. She wants women to CARE about their safety, not run from it. She wrote two books, “A girls gotta do what a girls gotta do” (Rodale) and “College Safety 101″ (Chronicle Books)  and believes that  “Caring about your personal safety is the GREATEST Gift you can give yourself. IT is NOT about being paranoid.  It’s about being SMART and making SMART personal safety choices.  Personal Safety is Personal.  It’s what makes YOU feel comfortable at the time.  Making the decision to CARE about your personal safety translates into every aspect of your life. It makes you a better mother, friend, coworker, whatever, because you are living with purpose.”

What if, then, as young women and men, we fastened this lesson to our hearts:  Being passionate for our safety first is our bottom line non-negotiable.  Maybe then, pain wouldn’t have to be gain.  And walls would become doors, and pain would become passion and possibility.  And I’d like to think that a little writing along the way helps…

#thefierce50 

 

 

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How Questions Can Help You Find Your Voice

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We have just a few more spaces left on our 2016 Haven Writing Retreat calendar!

September 21-25 (one space left)
October 5-9 (spaces left)
October 19-23 (spaces left)

To schedule a phone call to learn more about the retreat, go to the Contact Us button here.

What does it really mean to find your voice?  I use this word “voice” all the time when I talk about writing.  Often I get met with looks of confusion or even terror.  “I don’t have a voice,” so many people say.  “Someone already said it better than I ever could, anyway.”

To me, that’s like being mad at God and saying that God doesn’t exist in the same breath.  If you’re mad at God, then you must think God exists.  If you simultaneously say that you don’t have a voice and that it isn’t unique, then you believe your voice exists!  And that’s where the writing comes in.

In my formative years, I had what my teachers called verbal diarrhea.  What’s the symbolism of the fish in “Old Man in the Sea?”  Oh oh oh!  Pick me!  Pick me!  I was THAT kid whose arm was raised so long that she had to prop it up with the other hand at the elbow until her fingers tingled, and still they only called on me when all the quiet people had been given a shot.  I screamed my lungs out at lacrosse and soccer and hockey games.  I was the president of the choir.  I spoke at chapel services.  I was in every musical, usually the brazen alto hussy.  Adelaide in Guys and Dolls is still one of the shining moments of my life.  In other words, all the world was a stage.  And that was before answering machines.  If there were answering machines in those days, I would have been cut off every time.  Beep.  Redial.  “Part Two…so anyway…”

And then, junior year in high school, I went mute.  I got vocal nodules.  I couldn’t talk without a severe rasp.  I couldn’t sing at all.  And I certainly couldn’t cheer.  The doctors told me that I could undergo an operation to remove the nodules, or I had to stop talking, including whispering, for three months.  Smack dab in the middle of my glory days.
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No talking?  Who was I without talking?  If I didn’t answer hard questions in the classroom, was I smart?  If I didn’t cheer at the game, did I have school spirit?  If I didn’t stay up late night with friends solving the problems of the universe, was I loving and loyal and deep?  If I didn’t join the throngs that converged between classes, in the dining hall, in assemblies and social gatherings with my stab at quick wit or charm or whatever it was that I was trying to prove in the weight of words…then who was I?

Everything changed that year.  In the classroom, my hand remained on my pen, taking copious notes where I would otherwise be thinking about what I was going to say next.  In conversation, I did the same.  I listened.  At sports games, I learned how to whistle loudly.  And to communicate what I had to say, I carried around a notebook.  High school girls talk fast, and writing takes a while.  So I learned to only chime in when I really had something important to add to the conversation.

But I felt left out.  So I fashioned a tool that changed my life.  I started asking questions.  Questions were the way to go.  People had opinions and answers and I loved writing them down and turning them into essays for the school newspaper, like Erma Bombeck.  I wanted to be Erma Bombeck.  But how was she so sharp and funny and real and deep?  How did she have that unique Erma Bombeck voice?  It dawned on me that it had to grow from a deep curiosity.  She had questions, and she wrote into the answers.  Questions held the key.  It would be years before I read Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet:  “…love the questions themselves…”

A question, especially a powerful one, begs an answer.  And no answer is ever the same.  It’s only as good as the person of whom you ask the question.  Of course we all fear that we are ripping off something that we heard someone else say, or parroting the collective bombast.  But even if we try with all our puny might to opine the way Uncle Henry did last Thanksgiving…we really can’t.  I see it over and over at my writing retreats.  I put out a writing prompt, and ten minds go in ten directions.  Sometimes there are parallels, but even those are unique to the author.  It’s just not possible for me to think or speak or write like you, or vice the verse.

So how do you find your voice?  Maybe go mute.  Or mute-ish for a few days.  Make a conscious effort to take a beat before you speak.  If you’re not a big talker, let yourself off the hook and just listen.  The world will go on without our commentary.  We’re not going to lose our job or a loved one over a few lost words.  Tell them you’re on vocal rest, if you must.  Don’t tell them why.  And use this time very intentionally to write down your observations.  Then, turn them into powerful questions that you answer on the page for your eyes only.  Notice what you have to say and how you have to say it, without any pressure.  You might be surprised.  Now bring this back into your interactions with people (and if you’re a writer, in your work), and see if you feel more empowered.  See what your voice sounds like now.

Take away:  if you think you don’t have a voice, start with a powerful question.  (Notice that I began this essay with one.)  Answer it for yourself, in a journal, or on a walk when no one’s listening.  You have a voice.  No one can say what you have to say in the way that only you can say it.  Your job is to give yourself permission to believe that this is so.
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Give a Dream

11999725_10152969292486266_5989582988248983326_oHappy Holidays, everybody!  Haven Writing Retreats in Montana is a powerful, often life-changing experience that we want to share with the people who want it most. Thanks to Go Fund Me, and Fortua.com, you can help send writers to Haven in 2016!  

The first scholarship is inspired by Haven Writing Retreat alum Kathryn Stockett, writer of the best-selling novel and Oscar nominated movie,”The Help.”  Kathryn has set up a Gofundme account where you can offer a donation to help a writer come to Haven!  To donate, click here.

Here’s what Kathryn has to say:

The Dream: 
There is a person out there with the dream to write- they’re burning up with words to write – but they can’t afford the advice, time, and encouragement every one of us needs to write our story.   I think it would be so cool to send one writer with The Dream to a Haven Writing Retreat.    

 The idea sprung from hearing about an airline clerk in 1956 who knew she had a story inside her but she couldn’t afford to take time off work to write it.  So her friends gave her the money to go write for one year.  Oh what friends.  She wrote To Kill A Mockingbird.  

In 2002, somebody did it for me- just for a month- but I got the advice and the encouragement I needed and it changed everything.  I am ever thankful for that gift.

This isn’t a year, or even a month we’re giving, it’s just one weekend, but I think it could truly change someone’s life.  What’s even more magical is it would come from  writers and readers like you.  What friends.

If we make the goal, Laura Munson will take submissions for the scholarship.  The money will cover the workshop, food and lodging.  This is just a one-time thing, one scholarship, one person.  I hope you’ll help me help someone reach their dream.

Blessings,
Kathryn Stockett, author of The Help 

The second scholarship is for two writers in need, through a wonderful adventure travel website called Fortua.com:  Molly Carpenter and Terri Mellott-Gross both dearly want to attend my Haven Writing Retreat from February 24-28, 2016.

I’d be deeply grateful if you’d consider making a contribution to this campaign by clicking on this link:

In exchange for making a contribution you can receive some great perks and you’ll also have a huge impact on the lives of two wonderful women and aspiring writers!

Without your financial backing Molly and Terri will not be able to attend the retreat.

Meet Molly Renee Carpenter:

I am a Portland State student living in an eensy treehouse above the city. It’s just me, my cat, and my words. In 2011, I started a Word document for daily musings. It has gone through active spurts, dry seasons, entries with excessive cursing, and entries that led to a lot of tears being smeared on my keyboard (they have since dried but I remember they were there). It has never been printed. It has only been seen with someone else’s eyes once, by accident. This summer, it reached 100 pages. Its name has never changed, but the girl writing it sure has.

When I was in fourth grade I read “Little House on the Prairie” and my teacher made all us kids write a synopsis of each chapter. The paper we were given to use had outlines of covered carriages printed on them, the inside of the carriages were lined and we were meant to fill each carriage with each chapter’s synopsis. I remember being sent to the library multiple times throughout the class because I kept running out of paper. I was the only one who ran out of paper. I never could understand how those other kids could fit their words in such a small space. This is the first time I thought I might be different – with words, I might be different.

Sometimes it takes me thirty minutes to write an Instagram post. But between the chaos that is 18 class credits and a full-time job, that thirty minutes spent crafting two sentences will make my heart flutter with purpose. I want to thank each and every backer for this opportunity and believing in me. I know this will be a life changing experience. #ThankYou #SoGrateful

You can find me on Instagram @mollyrcarpenter

Meet Terri Mellott-Gross:

I am a Certified Intuitive Life Coach. I have lived through challenges I candidly wasn’t sure I’d get through and yet, with inspiration from others and finding meaning and purpose in the challenges themselves, I rose above these events to become a much stronger and happier person. Challenges included a difficult childhood, a 25-year marriage that ended in divorce, a diagnosis of aggressive breast cancer, and the death of my mother when I was a girl.

These experiences inspired many questions in me: Why are we here? Is life supposed to be such a struggle? What is the meaning of life?

For more than 20 years I searched for answers and learned we live in a loving universe. We are connected to this source of love and abundance at all times. We are being divinely guided at all times if only we would pay attention. I now know that life is magical, it is a gift and there is nothing that we can’t accomplish.

My goal in attending the Haven Writing Retreat is to further explore my voice and how to share my life journey in writing. To each and every backer, I thank you. Your support is a gift and I will make the most of every moment of this gift. Thank You. #VeryGrateful

You can learn more at LovinYourLife

During this season of giving, please rally to support writers, forward this blog post to your friends, and share the spirit of the season. Your support will have a significant and positive impact on these people’s lives.

Thank you and Happy Holidays!

Love,

Laura and the Haven Team

To learn more about Haven Writing Retreats click here.

2016 Schedule– all in gorgeous Whitefish, Montana!

February 24-28
June 8-12
June 22-26
September 7-11
September 21-25
October 5-9
October 19-23

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If you have said, “I am not Creative,” Read This!

CoverHaven Writing Retreat schedule 2015 (you do not need to be a writer to come– just a seeker…)

June 3-7 (only a few spots left!!!)
June 17-21 (full)

Now Booking:
September 9-13
September 23-27
October 7-11
October 21-25

“Everyone is an artist, and our materials are all about us. To use them, you must see them, and to see them, you must accept that they exist.”  — Bill Kenower

People tell me all the time, “I’m not creative.”  This is simply not true.  We are all creative.  We choose the clothes we put on, the way our living room looks, the words that come out of our mouth.  Usually this is a reaction, sometimes a violent one, to something that someone told us along the way.  “You’re a jock.”  “You’re a brain.”  “You’re artsy.”  Which is to say, that for the most part, we filled in the blank with: “I’m this, not that.”  While this may be true of some things, it is not true about creativity.  Everything we do, no matter what we’re good at or what roles we have chosen in life, EVERYTHING requires creativity.

Not a believer?  Usually it’s because we run into these roadblocks:

  • We think we need to seem smart, or smarter
  • We think we are not original enough
  • We think we need to belong to some sort of method or way or institution for validation
  • We think that we need to have certain accolades
  • We think that someone already did it better than we ever could
  • We think we are just plain not enough

In his wonderful book, “Write Within Yourself:  An Author’s Companion, my friend, the author, speaker, and founder of Author Magazine, Bill Kenower, wrote a wonderful chapter about this topic which helps us see our way through these roadblocks.  He helps us see that we don’t need to try so hard to tap into our creative flow.  It’s right there where we live.  In the way our heart beats, in the way we breathe, in the way we cry and laugh and dance.class

It’s the same thing I tell my Haven Writing Retreat attendees over and over again:  go where you feel most natural, where you feel most at ease.  It does not have to be hard.  That’s not to say that the subject isn’t difficult to face or the details aren’t hard to extract or develop.  It’s that the theme and the attraction to it must be honest and charged with something that comes from deep inside you, something that is already flowing.  You just need to accept it and enter into that flow.  It is in this natural state that you become hungry for what makes your creativity unique, and without-a-doubt:  ENOUGH.

Excerpt from the book:  “Write Within Yourself:  An Author’s Companion” by William Kenower1275_10151421704756266_1852761235_n

WHERE YOU ARE

Though it can seem strangely counterintuitive, the quickest way to change something is to first accept it. Or to put it another way, no matter where you may think you want to be, you are where you are.

For instance, there was a low time in my life when nothing interesting or satisfying seemed to be happening. This puzzled me. I felt capable; I felt curious; I felt creative; I felt ambitious—and yet, nothing seemed to happen.  All was rejection and disappointment.  During this period, I spent a lot of time living in my imagination. In my imagination, things were happening. In my imagination, I was having all kinds of marvelous success, meeting all kinds of interesting people, going to all kinds of interesting places.writers_writing_2

I suppose I can’t be blamed for retreating into my imagination. I was a writer, after all, and by necessity I spent a lot of time there. I learned to create interesting worlds in my imagination, so why not visit one such world if my world seemed less than interesting? It was a pleasant way to pass the time until things in my real world got interesting.

And then one day I was taking a walk, swimming as always in my imaginary waters, when something—literally—stopped me. Here I was making, and making, and making this happy imaginary world for myself that was really not making me any happier at all. It only made me happy as long as I hid there. I stood where I was, and I asked this question, “What could you make with this world?”10430493_10152074148911266_2767363178567064548_n

And as I asked this question, the world around me changed. I saw it all—the bushes, the pond, the birds—as clay. All of it was material. What could I make with where I actually was? Why not start there and see where it goes?

laughThis is why every spiritual doctrine in history teaches acceptance. Acceptance is not passive. Acceptance is not capitulation. Acceptance is an understanding that to create, no matter what you want, you must begin by working with what you have, with where you are. If you resist where you are, you only create an imaginary world where you are not where you are. Everyone is an artist, and our materials are all about us. To use them, you must see them, and to see them, you must accept that they exist.

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Haven Retreats in the top five! Come explore your unique voice with me in Montana!

2014 Haven Writing Retreats in gorgeous Whitefish, Montana
September 10-14 (one spot left)
September 24-28 (FULL)
October 8-12 (limited space)
October 22-26 (limited space)

email Laura for more info: laura@lauramunsonauthor.com

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Testimonial: Haven was more than I expected. I knew I’d get so much out of it. I got that and more. My intention in attending Haven was to free myself as a writer. Wow did it loosen the chains! I’m working on a book and am experiencing all the attendant self-doubt and stymie, having never written one before. I’d never even shared my writing before Haven. I’ve never in fact admitted to myself I am a writer. Through Haven I have a confidence I’ve never had, and renewed motivation, not to mention some insightful technical and industry guidance. I can now say with assurance, I am a writer, no matter if I’m published or if I just write for enjoyment. Above all, the one-on-one time with Laura was priceless. To have someone of Laura’s accomplishment and talent read my work and offer feedback was a rare and invaluable opportunity. It is a ‘must-do’ if you attend Haven. From structure, to voice, to engaging the reader, Laura helped me find my way. The insight she offered informs and energizes my writing even after Haven. The class exercises helped free my writing and encouraged me to actually share it with others. What a fantastic way to help you get out of your own way. Those group exercises were a safe and free zone to just play, as were the evening readings. Not everyone at Haven considers his or herself a writer, so there was a wonderful diversity of work and commentary in our group sessions. The different intentions, perspectives, and life experiences made the time together that much more powerful. Everyone brought and left with something different. As Laura once said to me, “Haven meets you where you need to be met.” She couldn’t have been more right. I don’t know how long Laura will continue to offer Haven and especially the one-on-one time, but I count myself lucky to have benefited from her total generosity of spirit, talent, counsel and passion. Thank you Laura! Thank you Haven!– Heidi Knippa, Austin, TX

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