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Haven Winter 2017 Blog Series #4: Finding your Voice

As a special Valentine’s Day gift to yourself, listen to the New York Times and WBUR Modern Love Podcast series! It is full of stories of love, its messiness and sometimes resolve, its bravery and always-teachings. Recently, I got to hear my own writing voice spoken and intuited by the talented and powerful actress, Alysia Reiner, who absolutely nailed my essay, Those Aren’t Fighting Words, Dear– the short version of my New York Times best-selling memoir, This Is Not The Story You Think It Is, and the #2 ranked Modern Love essay in the history of the column.  It has been reproduced in print all over the world...and now, thanks to Alysia and the Modern Love Podcast…it has an actual voice.  Deep bows of gratitude.  

 Please enjoy these essays by Haven Alums as the ‘Finding Your Voice’ series continues… and you will see their minds wander in this wondering of just what it means to Find Your Voice.  And set it free.

To read more from me on Voice, click here!

Yrs. Laura

 

Essay #7: The Healing Power of Finding my Voice by Laura Probert

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“I don’t want to be married anymore,” I said. Only I wasn’t sure the words had come out, out loud. The look on his face confirmed. I’d just found the voice I’d suffocated for years. I liked her and she scared me a little. Everything was about to change.

Journaling my stories of pain, desires for freedom and ideas about healing core wounds that probably started this mess was therapeutic. Sharing those stories with a small blog audience; powerful. Having the courage to write them for online sites; crazy and magnificent. My voice, once expressed was a thing to behold and one of the biggest teachers of my life.

“Are you sure?” he said. And I was. But having to speak my clarity out loud to him created a challenge I hadn’t expected. Speaking the words, my truth, my revelations, out loud to the world made them real. And today it was about as real as any of my prior days on the earth had been. “Yes, I’m sure,” I squeaked, the sound of the words not as sure as when I had written them in my journal.

We sat on the patio with the sliding door closed and I looked over my shoulder frequently to see if the kids were paying attention. Finding the courage to say the words was excruciating enough without having to wonder if the kids would understand. I could tell when we were done, spent from the emotion and energy it took to convince the other they were wrong, that telling the kids would be easier than this.

I found my journal that night and flipped to the pieces I needed to remind myself of. I read the familiar hand writing and listened to the voice of the woman on those pages who was so very sad. I called my best friend, the one who’d known us as long as there’d been an us. “You’ve never been truly happy,” she dutifully reminded me. “This has been going on for a really long time,” she continued. As I listened my heart softened slightly.

This time I was clear. I’d sorted out all the fear and doubts, daily, 750 words a day. I wrote until my hand cramped and clicked until my elbows complained. Until one of the keys on my keyboard threatened a revolt. I’d satisfied the ache in my gut and convinced myself staying would hurt the kids more.

Five mediation sessions later we were legally separated. Our life in thirty pages of tiny black and white. “It was a pleasure working with you both. This was one of the easiest situations I’ve mediated. Good luck to you,” Steve said as we walked to the elevator together.

The day I wrote and shared my first blog about being separated my voice quivered on the page. What if? What will happen when? Are you sure? They might think… My head was full and I re-read my post a hundred times to make sure it was love motivating me. When I was sure, I hit go. And in a millisecond the expression of my life in words, the voice I’d spent decades learning how to find and speak, she was alive and ready to share.

That was the healing. And everything was about to change again.

- Laura Probert

 

Essay #8: The Day I Heard Me by Noha Al-Kadhi

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I do not sleep at night for more reasons than one.

Some reasons are more prominent than others but they all share one common thread …I quiet them.

I quiet my thoughts and summon them to sleep all day, and I quiet them from coming to life at night.

I have finally come to peace with my sleepless nights and found comfort in discovering what my thoughts need to say as I have given them the permission to breathe.

My words were trying to birth their way into the world and they have found the freedom and their welcoming passage, and this is why;

As I lay on the polished hardwood yoga studio floor on top my perfectly folded blanket I ease my back into the bolster and crisscross my legs into a knot.

I am aware of the large glass windows that overlook the endless forest of trees that wrap around the tiny lake within the vast landscape of Montana which swaddle the grounds surrounding it to create a haven for migrating geese on a rainy October evening.

I stare at the ceiling covered in a soft floating pillow pinched into dimples gazing back at me like an airy cloud breaking into a grin.

With my arms spread wide open as though I am about to embrace a loved one, I slowly close my eyes and fall comfortably still into the soothing calm of what is pure silence.

And in that peaceful moment of stillness which could have been a second, an hour or even days, I found the words to the first chapter of my book.

The words found their way out of my congested head that October evening in the yoga studio because it was their safe haven.

I lay open and vulnerable, shed of all societal and cultural restraints, liberated from judgment and critique. I lay in a circle of love, engulfed within open and kind arms and compassionate hearts who have embraced me and given me safety to be.

My voice ascended from a deep silenced place of judgement, expectations, obligations, tradition, culture, and religion. It broke out of a dark space that held it in for too long, and it now basks in the sunlight of truth…My truth… my story… my journey.

Finding my voice is a liberation to generations of conditioning, and those who walked this path before me, and it is the emancipation for all who are destined follow.

My voice is a truth that has yet to be entirely heard and a freedom I have yet to fully experience.

From the Haven in Montana I have nothing but deep gratitude and indebtedness to ten beautiful souls I have had the privilege and honor to have met and known, shared and wept, grown and learned from. It is with this voice I thank you and acknowledge your kind hearts, beautiful minds, and unique voices that could hear mine way before I could.

- Noha Al-Kadhi

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Haven Winter 2017 Series Blog Series #3: Finding your Voice

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I use the phrase Find Your Voice often, and people often say to me that they have finally found their Voice (I especially love when that happens at Haven Writing Retreats!)…but what does it really mean?  If we find our voice, does that mean that we have been voiceless?  Does it mean that we didn’t know we had one in the first place? The reasons why we might feel voiceless are endless.  

Your job is to dig deeply with raw realness, and say what you truly have to say in the way that only you can say it.  And here’s how to know if you are in that confluence of pure truth and intention:  it’s easy.  And as I’ve said many times:  ultimately it’s not about the words at all. It’s about what’s behind them, what’s between them, and what’s left in their wake.

Please enjoy and please consider opening to the fact that YOU DO have a voice, and it is your own.  

To read more from me on Voice, click here!

Yrs. Laura

 

Essay #5: The Voice Between the Words by Erika Putnam

Before my eyes opened this morning I felt a surge of panic. I reached under the pillow and snatched out my iPad. Did he respond to my message? I was having second thoughts about the email I sent last night. It was a sincere and unedited reply to his question, “How do you see yourself having the strength to make this change”? Without much thought, I pressed the send key. Then, I sat with remorse thinking, “oh no!” when he reads that he will think I’m crazy.

Our email exchanges began after a brief meeting. We discovered we were both writers and started sharing ideas about creative expression. His writing rhythm was immediately apparent. His morning emails are full of deep thoughts, descriptive experience and considerate questions. His evening communication is flirtatious and spunky. After hours he addresses me as “doll”, and his remarks have intended to provoke exploration or penetrate subject matter that requires visibility from another level. My morning writing pattern is inquisitive and introspective. By night my writing is random and disjointed. That explains the unpolished and over exposed email I sent the night before. Did I cross the line with my bold musings or create an opening for each of us and our respective lives?

There it is. I open the email and drink his words like morning coffee. He writes, “Did you really write this?” I smile. I hear his voice between the words. He continues on with an eloquent description of reasons to change and peppers it with personal insight and ends stating, “Many of us can imagine the perfect new way of being, but we lack the strength and fortitude to see it through”.

I begin to hear the voice in my mind that is formulating a response to what his writing has touched in me. I let our distance give me permission to be transparent. The voice that writes to him is different than the voice of my external life. I only hear this voice when I have my hands on the keyboard. It is similar, yet different than the voice that writes with purple pen in my journal and draws boxes around the good stuff and stars the margins. This voice is softer than the voice that writes medical narratives. It feels similar to the voice that makes wishes in birthday cards. The voice that wants to reach him has a distinct filter, several channels, and layers of content. It can more precisely describe a thought, image or feeling.

My response teases back, “Did you really write this”? Then, more words creep onto the page, cautious at first. I start with writing about having strength to change and allow myself to feel strong. The sentences begin to express a feeling tone. My inner voice feels stronger, louder, and the pace of my writing shifts. It takes the tempo of passion for a few sentences and then becomes slow and steady. Almost unconsciously, I write words that don’t feel like mine. It is, as if, the spirit of me has taken over. I resign the keys to the voice inside of me that allows connection between my heart and the subject on the page.

I re-read my letter and hear this familiar and separate voice. I see it has taken its seat again in my reply. I am compelled to toss it but instead, I see it through. It has proven to have the capacity to communicate things that don’t surface face to face. I consciously press SEND. He didn’t mention crazy.

- Erika Putnam

 

Essay #6: Denying and Declaring Voice by Brenda Wilkins

Renowned author William Kittredge invited me to review my assignment from his creative writing class at The University of Montana. I fought my father like hell to take this class. He sees no point and he pays my tuition. He wants me in economics and accounting.

‘This is not the short story I assigned, this is the beginning of a novel … a memoir, yes?’ Kittredge asks tapping my paper on his desk when I appear in his tsunami-paper-piled office. Books tip on shelves, and edges of anything, including the chair he clears for me to sit.

‘Yes,’ anticipating admonition.

‘It’s good. You have natural talent. I’d like to help you.’ He’s grizzly bear intimidating, but there is a warm glimmer in his eyes. I stare – in shock at the complement, the offer. This is the best day of my life.

‘I don’t offer that often.’ He says raising his bushy eyebrows under his bushy head of hair. Waiting for me to reply, to understand the extraordinary offer.

‘Thank you, thank you.’ I mumble breathless.  He nods with a slight grin handing me back my writing with ‘SEE ME’ scrawled across the top in red editor’s pencil. I am dizzy and out of body walking across the sunlit campus on this spring day in 1982. Tears well and spill in release. I walk directly to the registrar’s office and I withdraw from Kittredge’s class. I have not seen him since.

I still write.  Just like I have since I was nine and my mum gave me a pink journal with a sweet golden key, and since my mum insisted my father allow me to take Kittredge’s class. I have written through the trauma of my life with my mentally ill husband in thousands of journal pages, and into a memoir that sits complete on my computer.

In 2013 I sit in a therapist’s office in Arizona. I travelled here for intensive trauma therapy.  I am here because I am a warrior in need of a warrior therapist.  I grind through exhausting hours, weeks, months of therapy in the final – I hope – step to heal the PTSD I was diagnosed with shortly after my husband’s first psychiatric hospitalization. In therapy, I find a new freedom to honor all that I am. Including a writer.

I return to my memoir, realizing I must start over. While this memoir has been reviewed, and workshopped with other writers and well known authors I realize it is not my – capital M. Y. – voice. It is the powerful voice of ‘the story’, but it is not my story, my voice. My voice is the voice of a woman telling her own story, not her husband’s. My voice is the voice of woman who acknowledges her frailty and her fortitude. My voice owns her point of view. My voice is from one who knows she is a writer.

At Haven in Montana, I arrive committed to starting my memoir anew. Fellow writers affirm my voice -  not just my story. In the cocoon of beauty, love, guidance and inspiration that is Haven, my memoir unfolds fresh and new in my mind.  I recognize myself in my pages.In passing I share my Kittredge encounter with Laura. She looks as stunned in front of me, as I was in Kittredge’s office as a freshman co-ed. She encourages a promised ‘to do’ from me once I leave Haven.

‘Dear Mr. Kittredge,’ my promise begins. ‘Twenty five years ago you set me on a path to find my voice. It’s time I said thank you….’

- Brenda Wilkins

Now booking 2017 Haven Writing Retreats!

February 22-26 (full with a waiting 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.

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Haven Winter 2017 Blog Series #2: Finding your Voice

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The reasons why we might feel voiceless are endless.  What I hear over and over again is this:  “Even if I did have a voice, someone else already said what I have to say, or said it better. Who am I to think my voice is unique, or even matters in the first place?”

To this I say: Who are you not to? Because the truth is that it’s actually not possible for anyone to have your voice, even if they try.  At Haven Writing Retreats, we work off of the same prompts in our morning classes, and we all get to see the living proof of this fact:  no one can write like you can.  I’ve said many times:  ultimately it’s not about the words at all. It’s about what’s behind them, what’s between them, and what’s left in their wake.

Please enjoy and please consider opening to the fact that YOU DO have a voice, and it is your own.  To read more from me on Voice, click here!

Yrs. Laura

Essay #3: VOICE LESSONS by Donna Naquin

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Go ahead. Say it! So I did. Somebody had to stand up to this terrorist. No one else seemed capable. Growing up, I lived with an unpredictable bear. Anytime the bear entered a room, I automatically assessed his “temperature.” On this particular spring day, he was hot. I felt my heart quake. At 6 feet tall, the bear, his angry eyes flaring, towered above the teenage me. Umpteen attacks prepared me for the onslaught to follow. Knowing that poking the bear would insight rage, something in me, an integral voice, encouraged me in this “Standing Rock” hour. Ferocious, frantic, and enraged, the bear scoured his cave for his missing piece/peace. Frustrated, he drew me into his eyeshot. Feeling the tension build, courage rose within me, an undeniable fearlessness. I spoke what needed to be said. The bear lunged with grisly force. Blackened eyes, bruised face, streaming tears, frightened and gutsy all at the same time…it was a David and Goliath moment. Windows opened, exposed to the world, I wondered if anyone heard me. I appreciated their frozen fears. They had mastered the art of sheltering in place: to remain out of sight and silent, to comply, to overlook the bear in the room. Speaking was a critical decision, a high-priced “gift” to myself that has served me for a lifetime.  In those marked moments barely uttering, I sang my strength, courage, and truth.

Now, hearing the voice whisper, shout and advise, I befriend it, creating a partnership. Nevertheless, sometimes I listen, sometimes I don’t. Isn’t that the way with collaborations? I have become a miner, digging into internal claims and counterclaims. In the old days, miners took a bird with them into a mine… why is that? Is it because birds are sensitive to toxic substances and can signal a disaster? Prospecting has taken me to the top of “Pamper Poles” (one may need a diaper leaping from a 30 foot telephone pole to catch a trapeze… no net but tethered); to summiting a “Fourteener” in the Rockies; to sacred share circles in Bali; to incredible writing workshops in Colorado and Montana; to remarrying after 13 years of single hood post-divorce; and to intimate, authentic connections via pods of likeminded spirits. I carry that bird by my side. My growing edge is to honor and succumb to the whisper to write. Nailing my voice to paper stands my hair on edge and wrestles me to the mat. I get pinned by doubts, insecurities, and questions. With the same quaking heart and tenacity that allowed me to encounter the bear, I practice writing and I am able to confront the skeptic in me. Encouraged by a loving flock chirping, “You can tell a story,” I am inching out on that skinny branch. Creeping closer to the edge, I am confident I know how to fly.

-Donna Naquin

 

Essay #4: FINDING MY VOICE by Julie Steele

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The alarm sounded at 5:44 a.m. Some mornings it woke me, and on others I was waiting for it. I lifted myself from the daybed with Pottery Barn Kids sheets. I lit a candle, slipped the chunky oatmeal sweater over my shivering form. I sat down at the desk that had been my tenth birthday present in the office a few feet from the master bedroom—where I used to sleep. As my second-grader and soon-to-be-ex-husband slept soundly in their bedrooms, I plugged in the iPod and opened my laptop.

A friend had challenged me to write a page a day—an easy task to squeeze into a calendar already packed with full-time employment and motherhood.  I didn’t know I had anything worth reading until I began publishing essays on my blog. Friends read the posts, commented in the affirmative, and asked for more.

This scene repeated itself for months. In the glow of the laptop screen, I dared myself to try fiction. There, I met characters who had not existed before I created them. Each morning, I breathed deeply, and looked at my characters’ lives like a prism, wrote about them from every angle.  A story emerged.

I shared snippets of these scenes with trusted friends. “Is this any good? Could you care about these people? Could you imagine reading an entire book?” Their answers were fuel on those cold mornings. One friend commented, “I’m walking around with her in my head and she isn’t even my character!” Another said, “I’m worried about your character. I don’t like that those men came to her door.”

My beloved character, Astrid, was my muse. With her in my head and heart, I found my voice. She told me what she was going to do next, what she was going to need, and what was going to make her stumble. I was the dutiful scribe that put her actions and conversations on paper. And as I did it, it occurred to me that if Astrid could face the frightening unknown, so could I. That indeed, by WRITING Astrid into existence, I already was doing it.

Astrid went to Montana before I did—in a 30 page e-mail attachment to Laura Munson for her advance review before my attendance at the Haven retreat. Astrid was with me as Laura walked me through her edits and encouragement. Astrid’s story sat open on my lap as I wept on the daybed in a sunlit room at the Walking Light Ranch lodge. Laura affirmed I could do this. She echoed what I knew: I was already doing it. Laura’s pointers about structure and how to refine the writing guide me every day—almost two years after the retreat.

The tears helped me process my relief and joy. After so many years of thinking about writing and talking about writing, I was finally writing. A stronger, clearer version of myself had emerged. I knew I could never go back. Writing will forever be a part of my life and how I navigate the world.

- Julie Steele

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.

 

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Throwback Tuesday

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Now booking 2017 Haven Retreats!

February 22-26
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.

Dear Reader –

So you know when you want something very very badly?  And you wait and you wait and then finally…it’s a sunny day, and all the great ideas beckon you out into it saying, “You can do this thing, you can be this person you want to be, you can have the life you want…and P.S…it’s not that hard.  Come.”  And so you do.  And it’s with fear and trepidation. But you do it anyway and you feel good about it.  Really good.  And then something happens and you get stuck in an old way of thinking and the fear sets in and suddenly you find yourself on your ass.  In my case, it might have had something to do with a horse and his jig to my jag.  And the consequent fracture to a few key bones making it very hard to sneeze, cough, laugh, clear my throat, breathe.

Well, it gives you pause.  Time to think.  You know what I’m talking about.  That thing that you want so badly is actually something that really scares you and you wonder why you want it so badly– why you’ve set your life up to always be hard.  Like you’re constantly saying to yourself:  “You can take it.  You’re brave enough.  You’re a bad ass.  DO IT.”

Well that’s what I hear in my mind:  A lot.  Sometimes it serves me.  Sometimes it doesn’t.  It’s helped me get through 25 years in Montana.  And it’s sort of getting me through these days laid up in bed, grateful for rolling over two inches, grateful for being able to reach a glass full of water.  It has me wondering about my relationship with personal power.  Maybe we don’t have to be so bad ass.  Maybe being able to get out of bed is a daily miracle.  Maybe this is a blessing, this time to pause.

And reflect on this woman I’ve been in these Montana years.

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In this period of near-motionlessness, I’m grateful for my laptop.  I’m not much in the mood for writing.  More for reflecting on my relationship with personal power and how I get in my own way– my jags to life’s jigs.  So, I’m looking through old blog posts about Montana in the last decade and trying to learn what it is to let yourself off the hook.  Thought I’d re-post a few of them here this week.  Makes sense, given my current state, to begin with one called “Break Me In, Montana.”  I hope you enjoy.

Here’s something that might help you in your own relationship with your personal power:
My affirmation when I went out on my first book tour was, “I give myself permission to be exactly who I am and have it be easy.”

yrs.

Laura

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Break Me In, Montana

May 11, 2009

I begged for this. This house. This land. This time. This husband and these children. I begged to know a place season for season. To use last summer’s spent perennials as winter mulch. To rake it off when the Lenten roses poke through. To know, finally, which one is the North Star, and use it to find my way home. I begged to feel my heart sink with the leaving V’s of geese. And become buoyant again with their return.

I did not know I was begging. All those years in cities. Chicago, New York, Boston, Florence, London, Seattle. I would catch myself in storefront windows and say yes, I am alive. I see myself here in the crowd. In that great outfit. Those fantastic shoes. And return to the apartment with the cockroaches and the blinking answering machine, ready to make my home in some glittering concert hall, some stark white art opening, some hushed mocha-toned new restaurant. I did not know I was begging for this when I dropped to my knees one night at the side of my bed like my grandmother used to, and said, please, please, bring me home.

Three weeks later my husband walked into our brand new Seattle house and said, “I just got a job in Montana. You would be able to write full time. We could have our kids there, and you wouldn’t have to work outside the home.”

So we left.

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  I watched the Cascades until they were little harmless divots in the horizon,    and I cried all through the dry of Eastern Washington and over the pass that  brought me, for the first time, to the Flathead Valley.
Over a hill, and there it was: Flathead Lake to the south, the ski mountain in  Whitefish to the North, the Jewel Basin in front of us drifting off into the Swan and the Mission ranges. The canyon leading to Glacier National Park off to the east. Twin bald eagles riding a thermal over us.
“It feels like a set up,” I said.

I could not receive this place at first. It felt like it had power over me like one of those guru types posing to know you better than you know yourself. More so, it felt like my enemy. The answer to a prayer I never meant to pray. Like it would break me in half if I slacked off for one second. Grizzly bears. Forest fires. Avalanches. Mountain lions. Angry loggers. Angry environmentalists. People dying for and from what I could only perceive as folly—kayaking, mountain climbing, mountain biking, backpacking, back country skiing, downhill skiing, horseback riding, ice climbing, river rafting…and on and on.

“Let go of the city,” the lovers of this country would say. “Stay. Sit a spell.” No, I secretly schemed. Letting go would mean a betrayal. Of that girl in the shop window.

Instead, I spent many years letting go of Montana. Taking hits off the city in drug-dose proportions. Looking down from my returning flight into our little valley, seeing the outline of the mountains, the five or six farm lights still on, landing, thinking I can do it this time. I can stay. Three months later, I would be up in the sky again, panting over the grid of lights below and the skyscrapers on the horizon beckoning me back.
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Until I had my first child. And the subway so suddenly went villain. The honking cars and heaving bus exhaust and hissing sewers…like land mines. I clung to my baby. I ended up in parks. Grant Park. The Presidio. The Boston Garden. Central Park. The Arboretum. Leaving the city windows to another girl’s self-fascination. Then I would hover over our little valley with the landing gear descending, see the half-dozen little lights below, the moonlit ranges, and begin to find thanks.

It occurred to me then, that letting go was not a leaving. But a climbing in. A yes. I proclaimed that yes. At first quietly. Ashamed. Then louder. Then so I didn’t know the difference between yes, and living.

Fifteen years. Dog sled racers, endurance riders, snowcat operators, medicine women, stunt pilots. Grizzly trackers, loggers, bowhunters. Helicopter nurses, heart surgeons, brewers and preschool teachers. Electric company cherry pickers, and Flathead cherry growers. Pizza parlor proprietors and organic farmers. Cowboys. Rodeo queens. Horse whisperers. Blacksmiths. Piano tuners. Cross dressers. Quilters. DJ’s, hot dog vendors, mule packers. Vietnam Vets. Ski bums. Fly-fishing guides, bartenders, computer programmers, train conductors. Double Phds that live in their car and grift at the pool hall for food money. Wives who live to hunt. Husbands who live to cook their wives’ kill.

I still have not been mauled by a grizzly bear. Still have not even seen a mountain lion. Have only come upon the aftermath of forest fire…and found a bounty of mushrooms there. Montana never broke me in– like a cowboy who thinks it needs to break the mare’s spirit to gain respect. I was never that mare. It was never that cowboy.

Instead, it was there all that time– in purple Alpine glow and sparkling wide rivers, in the sight of my child’s fingers on a trout belly, the safe back of an old horse lakeside in August, dipping its neck down and drinking slow sips of glacial run-off, in soft rains and misting meadows, anthills and golden Larch, in the little white farm lights and moonlit snowy peaks– it was there, all that long sweet time…welcoming me home.

 

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Haven Health Series #6

These next two recipes were designed to refresh and root your creativity, leaving you invigorated and connected.

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We are fully booked  for our 2016 Haven Writing Retreat calendar and now booking for 2017!

Next Haven: February 22-26

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

Self-care.  That word scares me.  Maybe it scares you too.  It sounds hard.  It doesn’t have to be.  I invite us to start with some simple things.  Like a walk in the woods.  Like homemade bone soup that’s been simmering on the stove for twelve hours.  Like Epsom salt baths with eucalyptus and a Mexican cocoa candle.  Like essential oils of clary sage, frankincense, and wild orange by your bed.  Like Arnica salve, infused from the forest floor.  Like early mornings in bed with your journal.  And some very excellent beverages along the way that are as healing as they are delicious:  like ginger tea, like guava kombucha, like rooibos muddled with mint over ice.

These custom drinks are designed by master mixologist, Meagan Schmoll of Whitefish, Montana, to help your state of being in the way that you so desire.  And they are alcohol free.  

Enjoy!  yrs.  Laura

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Recipe #1 - INVIGORATE

“Rooted Like Trees”

2 oz Green *Strong Tea*

1 oz Fresh Apple Juice

0.75 oz Fresh Pear Juice

0.50 oz Celery Stalk Juice

0.50 oz Fresh Squeezed Lemon Juice

0.50 oz Maple Syrup Grade B

1/2 Capful of Apple Cider Vinegar

*Strong Tea*

3 tea bags or 9 grams of Green Tea 

8 oz Boiling water

Let steep for 20 Minutes

Remove Tea and let cool

RootedLikeTrees_001   Add ingredients into a pint glass.

   Add ice.

   Place shaker tin on top of pint glass giving it a firm tap.

   Turn it over so the tin is in your bottom hand and the pint glass is in      your top hand.

Shake it, shake it real good.

Strain from large tin into a tall ice filled some refer to this particular glass as a collins.

Garnish with an Apple Fan and Celery Stalk with leaves on it.

Enjoy and the invigorating feeling of Rooted Like Trees.

Recipe #2 - REFRESH

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Bhimbetka Jig 

2 oz Peppermint *Strong Tea*

1 oz Fresh Watermelon Juice

0.5 oz Raw Amber Agave

0.25 oz Balsamic – Genesis Traditional Balsamic highly recommended.

6 Blueberrys muddled

Top Ginger Beer – Glacier Ginger Brewing highly recommended

*Strong Tea*

3 tea bags or 9 grams of Peppermint Tea 

8 oz Boiling water

Let steep for 20 Minutes

Remove Tea and let cool.

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Place Blueberries and Agave in pint glass will do, Muddle a few times so the juice of the blue berries mixes with the agave. Add remaining ingredients.

Add ice.

Place shaker tin on top of pint glass giving it a firm tap.

Turn it over so the larger, shaker tin is in your bottom hand and the pint glass is in your top hand.

Shake what your mama gave you.

Strain from the pint glass into an ice filled Copper Mug & top with the Glacier Ginger Beer.

 

Pick a couple of Mint Sprigs, brush or slap them against your hand allowing the aroma to come out.

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Place in the copper mug so you when taking sips your nose gets to be buried in it.

Smell, drink and feel refreshed with the Bhimbetka Jig!

 

Photo credits: Katy Bell

Drink credits:  Meagan Schmoll

Instagram @katybellkaty @lmschmoll #RaskolDrink #embellishpictures

Facebook: Katy Bronwyn Bell, Raskol Drink, Meagan Schmoll

 

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Haven Health Series #4

“Soup is cuisine’s kindest course.”- Virginia Woolf

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

October 5-9 (full)

October 19-23 (a few spaces left!!!)

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

 

The days of summer are quickly coming to a close but the windows of winter fruits and vegetables are opening, especially with this gorgeous fruit. Yes, butternut squash is a FRUIT!

squash

With a sweet and nutty taste similar to pumpkin, butternut squash is an excellent source of fiber, vitamin C, vitamin A, vitamin E, manganese, magnesium, and potassium. Just what a writer needs to keep the heart and mind healthy and writing, writing, writing.

This recipe comes from Michelle Berry, chef extraordinaire of the Haven Writing Retreats. In each bite, love, comfort and wellness dances on the tongue.

So, take some time out of your day and give yourself something that makes you feel good. In a big bowl!

Your belly will thank you.

 

Recipe #1: CUP O’ COMFORT aka Butternut Squash Soup

Butternut Squash Soup

 

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Haven Health Series #3

With this next delicious concoction, unlock the power and brilliance of your beautiful minds.

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

September 21-25 (full)
October 5-9 (full)

October 19-23 (a few spaces left!!!)

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

This may shock you:

Beethoven reportedly drank wine about as often as he wrote music.  Stephen King doesn’t remember writing Cujo.  Even Maya Angelou loved her sherry.

They all were quite likely deeply sensitive people who didn’t know how to handle all that they perceived.  So they went into F**k It mode.  I know F**k It mode well.  People don’t have a lot of tolerance for it.  They think it’s an affront on them.  They think it’s a lack of self-control.  They think that it’s weak.  When in reality, it is an inability to know what to do with all those feelings.  All that empathy.  Booze and drugs stop the empathy.  At least that’s the illusion.

And it’s not just artists.  It’s anyone who feels deeply, as a rule.

So if we’re empowering ourselves as the deeply feeling people that we are, what if we were to look at it like when we are feeling, without blocking that flow, we are strong!  We are complete!  Those feelings can’t take us down!  It’s the fear of them which is the problem.  And an altered mind doesn’t give us all the fortification we need to fight the fear.  Or, as I like to think instead, to love that fear into submission.

So how do we break old behavioral patterns, how do we train ourselves out of old thought patterns which find us in a place of suffering, woe, and even self-harm, self-loathing, or even self-violence?  My way is gentle and luxuriant.  Yes, it has to do with the awareness that we even have these patterns in the first place.  But why not meet ourselves in this place with radical self-care in the most loving and gentle way…and easy?

To read more from this essay, click here.

For two weeks Haven Blog will feature custom drinks that you can make at home.  They are designed by master mixologist, Meagan Schmoll of Whitefish, Montana, to help your state of being in the way that you so desire.  And they are alcohol free.  Enjoy!  yrs.  Laura

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Drink #3: BEAUTIFUL MIND…

*served over ice

2 oz Oolong *Strong Tea*

1.5 oz Fresh Orange Juice

0.25 oz Clover Honey

0.5 oz Genesis’ Traditional Balsamic

3 Strawberries

1 Cinnamon stick

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*Strong Tea*

3 tea bags or 9 grams of Oolong Tea

8 oz Boiling water

Let steep for 20 Minutes

Remove Tea and let cool

 

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Place Strawberries, Cinnamon Stick and Honey in a pint glass. Muddle until Strawberries are squished thoroughly and cinnamon stick crunched well.

 Add remaining ingredients.

Add ice.

 

 

 

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Place shaker tin on top of pint glass giving it a firm tap.

Turn it over so the tin is in your bottom hand and the pint glass is in your top hand.

Give it a good hearty shake.  

 

 

Strain from pint glass into an ice filled rocks glass, some refer to this as a Double Old Fashioned.

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Garnish with half of an orange wheel, cinnamon stick and strawberry in a way the makes you feel creative and take a sip delighting in your Beautiful Mind.

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Photo credits: Katy Bell

Drink credits:  Meagan Schmoll

Instagram @katybellkaty @lmschmoll #RaskolDrink #embellishpictures

 

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Haven Winter Series #8

Screen Shot 2015-01-09 at 8.50.07 PMHappy Valentine’s Day! This is the eighth post of my winter writing series where I open up my blog to other writers to explore a theme. This year I asked my Haven alums to consider submitting a piece about what it took to get themselves to the retreat, what their blocks were, and how it has informed future decision making when it comes to creating possibilities for themselves in the field of their dreams.

The theme is: I Gave Myself the Gift of a Haven Retreat. So Now What? 

If you’d like to come on a Haven Retreat, here’s our 2015 calendar:

February 25- March 1 (only a few spaces left)
June 3-7 (filling fast)
June 17-21 (filling fast)
September 9-13
September 23-27
October 7-11
October 21-25
April 29- May 3- Haven joins the fabulous luxury guest ranch Ranch at Rock Creek for an activity-based retreat that will blow your mind!

Click here for more info.  You do not have to be a writer to come.  Just a seeker…

Haven
by Yve Sturman

I’ve always been a little bit strange. I’ll admit it. I was always that kid going the other direction on the school field trip. The kid that was a proverbial thorn in the designated chaperone’s side. If we were in the woods, I’d find my own path. If we were in a museum, I’d wander off alone into exhibits tucked away in dark corners. Back then, I was driven by curiosity and a sense of adventure. Fear was the last thing from my mind. I had this same sense driving down the long winding driveway of Walking Lightly Ranch in Whitefish, Montana in June of 2013. Recapturing that feeling made me grin like an idiot. This was a feeling I lived for, a feeling I loved.

I was there to spend a week writing with eleven strangers and one author of a book that I had picked up in a moment of personal crisis several years prior. In a moment of adventure fueled bravery, I had sent Laura Munson some samples of my sporadic writing. I had kept quiet track of Laura over the years and had read about her Haven writing retreats. They had always been “on my radar”. “Maybe I can do that one day?” I dared to wonder. Now just a few short phone calls and several plane tickets later, I was slowly rolling toward the main ranch house in the steady deluge of a Montana downpour. I was equal parts nervous and excited. “I can’t believe I’m doing this!” I thought.

Those five days spent hold up next to a roaring fire as the Montana rain softly fell outside, were to prove life altering. I rediscovered a voice within myself. My voice.  I was writing with wild abandon and I was doing so amongst the company of eleven other adventurous souls. Every single one of us grew in those five days. We could see it in each other. We grew braver and bolder within each other’s company and we became bonded in a way few will understand. I left Montana much closer to the adventurous spirit I once was.

I may have physically left Walking Lightly Ranch, but I carry Haven with me. I still write freely with wild abandon. I sit with my coffee and my laptop and again wander off into dark corners relishing what I find there. I grow and stretch myself with each keystroke and I have found my voice to the point where I have started to tell my own story in the form of a memoir. It’s a story I needed to tell and it’s proving to be quite a journey. A road paved in healing and light. A road that requires me to be brave and work hard. The “writer’s experience” Laura calls it.

I recently returned to Montana. I spent a few days indulging my inner adventurer. I got lost in Glacier national park and emerged with several new stories to write. I reunited with Laura. We talked about many things but my favorite moment was sitting across from her at a kitchen table. As we chatted, I had a moment of realization. We were talking about what it means to write and the trials and tribulations faced by writers seeking publication. In that moment I realized that my fire for writing now burned hotter than ever. I wanted this challenge. I was once again forging my own path. I had rediscovered myself and I was ready for this journey, wherever it led me.

Right Time
by Betsy Gibson

My Haven Writing Retreat came at just the right time for me, and I was certain that I would take what I’d learned and start to examine my life in exacting detail. I’d figure it all out in writing. I’d become more relaxed, more disciplined and more focused than I’d been in years. And if I got lucky, maybe I’d find something interesting in my voice. Profound, even! Yes!! Maybe I could even become the next “OH, I LOVE HER!!!” writer (notice that I am not so presumptuous as to say “author”). Stranger things have happened.

Well, a year has now come and gone, and I have failed to examine my life. I have figured out nothing—or nothing profound, I should say—and I am not one bit more relaxed, more disciplined or more focused. What happened? After all, I had thought about my Haven Retreat every day for the past year. I was still excited about the prospect of “figuring it all out” through writing. So then, How had I not acted on those thoughts? The thoughts that urged me to write. BEGGED me to write. The thoughts that said, “Come on, just pick up the legal pad and start to write!!”

Something was seriously wrong. I started to wonder how and why I had seemingly just thrown away such a wonderful, life-altering experience. I spent a good deal of time furious with myself for not fulfilling my newest “life assignment” (I view the act of writing daily as an assignment- -as a Total Type A, I love having “assignments” and tend to look forward to working on them and completing them in a way that makes me feel as though I’ve accomplished something positive). At some point, though, I realized that being furious with myself was not the most positive course. So, rather than focusing on how I had wasted an entire year on “not writing”, or on writing things that resembled what I imagined the periodic rants of a very moody teen girl might have looked like, I decided to write something real. Or to try to write, I should say. Yes, maybe that would be my ticket to understanding my dismal failures when it came to my writing life (and my failures when it came to my inability to change from a Type A, always busy, always stressed former NYC lawyer to the completely Zen-like and utterly calm and seeking soul that I had planned to become through my writing). An ironic thought, yes. But maybe it would work.

So I wrote. I started with a lengthy Facebook post. I didn’t mean to, but I just couldn’t stop myself. Yet the post, too, had all of the markings of a teen girl caught in the midst of a rambling barrage of words. It was the worst thing I had ever written, and I (wisely, I think) deleted it soon after I had posted it. Why was I writing like this? What was going on?

When I looked at the Facebook post after its completion (and deletion), I had the answer as to why I had been failing myself in my writing life. And in my “life life”. It was amazing! In my post, I saw a totally overwhelmed woman who was juggling two tremendous life changes at the same time, with other severe stressors lurking in the recesses of her mind. I saw a woman who didn’t “fail” by virtue of not having fully examined her life during the past year, and who didn’t “fail” by not writing (or by not writing like a rational adult would write). No, amazingly enough, I did not see a self who had failed at all!!! I saw a self who simply had not had the time she’d needed to fulfill her goals. Thank God for small favors. It wasn’t “me”, it was the whirlwind of life all around me that had prevented me from proceeding according to schedule.

I realized, for the first time, two things through reading my stream of consciousness, “subject/ verb tense error” filled post. I realized (or was reminded) that I am, first and foremost, human. And therefore, not in the least bit perfect. Not even close. Even more telling, I realized that I am currently, and have been for the past year, fully invested in something much bigger and much more important than myself. The subject matter of my post made it clear to me that I was wrong to bemoan my inability to fulfill my particular goals. Instead, my focus over the past year had been exactly where it should have been: on the people I love and love taking care of. My focus should never have been on myself. Or on any sort of detailed analysis of my life. And I realized, in reading the post, that I hadn’t wanted it to be. That explained it. Instead of working on myself the year after my Haven Retreat, it had been my time to step up my work in the incredibly important job of fully immersing myself in my role as mother, wife, sister, daughter, daughter in law and friend. Other people needed me during that year after Haven. More than ever before. And my focus needed to be on those other people, each of whom I love unconditionally and without hesitation and without whom I would be lost. So right now, thanks to that horribly written, now deleted Facebook post, I understand why I have not been able to reach my (overly lofty) goals. I’m no longer plagued by the daily nagging questions: Why can’t I get it together? Why can’t I get all of my various legal pads together and try to weave my story into something cohesive? It’s because it’s simply just not my time yet. But when my time comes,

I’ll get there. And in the meantime, I have decided that I will write what I can, when I can, where I can. If that writing is akin to a teenager’s (or even a preteen’s!) emotional diary entries, then so be it. If it is akin to a Trust Indenture, so be it. If it’s in the form of a Facebook post or an email to my mother or sisters, well, at least I’m writing SOMETHING. I may be working in the “Haven Lite” mode right now, but at least I now understand why. And my time will come. I know it. And Haven will be with me as I put pen to paper and finally begin my journey. Of that, I am sure.

 

 

 

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Haven Winter Series #4

Screen Shot 2015-01-09 at 8.51.06 PMEvery winter I do a writing series where I open up my blog to other writers to explore a theme. This year I asked my Haven alums to consider submitting a piece about what it took to get themselves to the retreat, what their blocks were, and how it has informed future decision making when it comes to creating possibilities for themselves in the field of their dreams.

The theme is: I Gave Myself the Gift of a Haven Retreat. So Now What?

If you’d like to come on a Haven Retreat, here’s our 2015 calendar:

February 25- March 1 (only a few spaces left)
June 3-7 (filling fast)
June 17-21 (filling fast)
September 9-13
September 23-27
October 7-11
October 21-25
April 29- May 3- Haven joins the fabulous luxury guest ranch Ranch at Rock Creek for an activity-based retreat that will blow your mind!

Click here for more info.  You do not have to be a writer to come.  Just a seeker…

Here are the words of two of our Haven alums, Patricia Young and Laura Prochnow Philips:

Haven
by Patricia Young

Siri defines Haven in two ways.  “1. As a shelter serving as a place of safety or sanctuary.  and 2. A sheltered port where ships can take on or discharge cargo.”

I have always had a love of lighthouses.  Dreaming of taking one of the cruises, not on a ‘cruise ship’, but on a beautiful schooner that sails from the Hillsboro Inlet Light on Pompano Beach in Florida all the way up to Lighthouse Point in Nova Scotia.  Stopping along the way to photograph, paint and write about the different lighthouses dotting the coast.  Still to this day a great comfort to every sailor gazing into the darkness looking for the shore.

Although Laura Munson’s Haven is unequivocally the first definition, it is also safe to say each person who experiences it takes away more than one meaning of the term.

What is a sanctuary for some, may mean a place I can not only feel safe in – but also a place to explore within myself, to share thoughts and feelings without being judged or ridiculed.  To have a say in what I am going to do –then feel the support of a very uniquely special group of women, who will encourage those choices.

Haven will not magically turn you into a writer.  It will not get you published or make you independently wealthy.  However – it will help you find the writer inside you.  It will answer your questions honestly about the publication world and what to expect or not expect.  It will be bold and clear when it tells you to do whatever you want – but know you must do the work it takes to get there.

It has been fifteen months since I walked on the dock by the lake in Whitefish.  Sat on the swings and felt the Montana breeze on my face.  Had a ‘Laura’ hug!  Yet I know in my heart a piece of me remained, and a piece of that beautiful place came home with me.

Haven is a lighthouse – it beacons you, bids you welcome and cautions you to take care – of yourself, your soul and your spirit.  It is a place you can come and unload the cargo you carry on your back, and take on a fresh perspective of what you hope to do, plan to do and will focus on.  Having given you sanctuary – it will nourish and fill you, so you can refreshed and rejuvenated come home.  Where you can choose to continue on your path, decide if you should take another route, face a storm or sail into the sunset of possibilities.

The destination is ultimately up to you.

Breathe Deep, Think Peace

 

I Gave Myself the Gift of a Haven Retreat – So Now What?
by Laura Prochnow Philips

I went to Haven for several, very personal reasons: to reconnect with a long-lost cousin, to see if I was right about the powerful role of creativity (and writing in particular) in a healthy life, to enjoy a completely different physical environment, and to see if I wanted to write again either for my work as a coach or for me alone.  Once I was there, I discovered a greater, broader purpose: I want to change the internal and external conversations women are having about midlife health and wellness to include more joy, fulfillment, self-compassion, and love.  I came home renewed and inspired, but I knew that keeping Haven alive while back home would be one of the most challenging parts of the journey.

In the short time I’ve had since the retreat, I’ve found that the key to keeping Haven fresh and vital is to bring as much of the feel, the learning, and the experience of Haven into everyday life rather than let it fade away like new year’s resolutions in February.  I carved out a physical space for writing at home: I now have my Haven Manifesto pinned up next to my desk, and I cherish my photo with John the horse.  But these are small efforts compared to the powerful internal shifts I experienced and want to make permanent.  What can I do that will last?

Rediscovering my creativity was one of the most important parts of Haven for me.  I firmly believe that creativity is an essential part of a healthy lifestyle, whether it shows up as writing, dancing, painting, knitting, making music, or any number of similar pursuits, and my experience at Haven confirmed that belief.  As a health, wellness, and lifestyle coach, one would hope that I would practice what I preach.  But I had fallen off the creativity wagon; I hadn’t been writing for a very long time, and Haven invited me, cajoled me, and forced me to write again.  A curious thing happened once I restarted writing: I liked it.  I wanted to do more of it.  My voice got louder and stronger and wasn’t taking no for an answer.  The reboot of me as a writer—and as a creative soul—has been just as fulfilling, energizing, and healthy as I tell my clients it will be once they take the plunge into a creative endeavor.

For me, the true gifts of Haven are the rediscovery of a long dormant part of myself—the writer—and the continuation of the spirit and energy of the retreat every day since I came home. Taking best advantage of those enormous gifts depends entirely on me deciding to support my internal shifts in one of the best ways I know as a coach: taking an active part in a community of fellow souls seeking their individual paths. The Haven Facebook community provides contact with other participants and the support of as many writing coaches.  My group is planning to get together again in person in 2015, which is delightful to anticipate.  I’m so grateful for my new community and the support it provides, and I’m deeply energized by all the possibilities that exist in me and in us.  If this creative community and my reawakened writing self are my “now what?,” I’m thrilled.

 

 

 

 

 

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My Garden Grows

borderI learned to garden not as a lady of leisure, but as a writer who needed a source of income and who knew that it had to be in the realm of creative self-expression lest it suck the muse dry.  So I worked at a flower shop in Harvard Sq., and later at a nursery in Seattle, and after that, at a landscaping operation.  I learned a lot along the way, and little by little I began to play with my own garden dreams.  I’d bowed at the altar of my childhood favorite illustrator, Tasha Tudor, in deeply spiritual groans over her lush tangle of flowers and barefoot ruddy-faced children, dogs and cats– a peaceable kingdom that I longed to one day create.  I wanted to be this woman, so self-sufficient and Yankee, walking barefoot in her garden, pausing only for the rigors of afternoon tea and a sensible nap.  I wanted to set up a writing table the way she did an easel, and use it all to inspire worlds from this small postage stamp of my creation in the physical world.

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I planted small perennial gardens wherever I lived, even in rentals.  Suffice it to say that there are a lot of perennial beds across the country, and I hope that they are still alive and well.  Perennials are both good friends and traitors that way.  The second I bought my first home, I planned out the garden, pouring through all the Tasha Tudor books I could find about her garden, and locked in on my vision:  a cottage garden, dripping in structure that would over the years, take care of itself.  patio_2
Honeysuckle would grow over grapevines, clematis would vine through ragosa roses barbed to antique metal trellices.  There would be show after show, each star introducing the next from narcissus, to tulips, to forget-me-nots, to allium, to ladies mantle, to lupine, to poppies, to peonies, to roses, to delphinium, to mallow, to rudbeckia, to monarda, and the final autumn show stoppers– sunflowers, aster, sedum, done.   And so much inbetween.  It would be a fine mess of old friends that would return every year, and I would welcome them as such, praying away hail for the easily bruised poppies, high winds for the hollow-stalked delphinium, and praying for ants for the peonies.IMG_0334

We had little to choose from at our rural Montana nurseries in the way of perennials, and the catalogues were a let down– the bare root stubs that showed up in the mail nothing like what they promised in profusion on their pages that taunted you mid-February.  So whenever I travelled, be it by car, train, or airplane, I would always bring home roots from friends’ gardens, wrapped in wet newspaper, and stored in plastic bags.  To this day, old friends who have passed on, are still alive in my garden, reminding me of the power of roots.  The power of vision.  The power of creating your own postage stamp of perennial friends who for the most part, live, even through the most brutal winter.trio

My garden has been a room in our home, inspiring mudpies, bedside bud vases, Mother’s Day bouquets, teacher appreciation gifts, strawberry jam. No matter what, I try to have something from the garden in the house. Because it helps. In their exquisite and tender elegance, flowers remind us that we are all root, stalk and petal. And that we all bloom, fade, and grow again. Unless it’s time to move on like my honeysuckles decided this winter after a 20 year run, sometimes even growing in winter!070 (2)

There have been years when I was ambitious, building a dry stack wall by  myself, or binding willow trellices to support the sweet peas, or digging up day lillies and soaking them so that I could release them from the grass that bound their roots, divide them and replant.  And years when I didn’t have the time or the back power to add even one bulb in the fall, or pull weeds in the spring, and there was one year when I didn’t have the energy to water them at all.  Still, for 20 years, these friends have grown loyally and religiously.  The garden then, is the outward and visible sign of my inward invisible truth.peon

May your garden grow whatever kind of day you are having!

Take a moment and meet these good old friends of mine:


Honeysuckle: May you rest in peace…
honey
We bedeck you with crystals from my childhood lamp.
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