Tag Archives: mindfulness

Ladies, We Need to Talk Money!

Haven-4-1024x1024There’s nothing like 4 am for all the good haunts, money being at the top of the list.  This morning, I realized:  We need to start talking about money.  Period.  Throw aside your east coast cranky Yankee “T.J. Max’s finest,” your mid-western farm-stock “Hand-me-down,” your mountain-mama “Made it myself,” your mildewy PNW, “5 bucks at a thrift shop,” your southern belle, “Oh, this old thing?”

This is a call to action!  Especially to women.  Especially to single women.  Especially to single women of a certain age:  we need to start talking about money!  (Yes, even you, my WASP sisterhood.)15-my-two-cents.nocrop.w710.h2147483647

The other night, I spent two hours on the phone with a dear old friend  of mine.  We have a very specific and special friendship.  We were roommates for a semester in college in a foreign country.  We have never lived near each other.  We have never had mutual social engagements or group interactions.  It’s always just the two of us on the telephone, hashing it all out.  We go deep, fast.  And because of that, we also go months, sometimes years without talking.  It requires a large window.  But we figure—this sort of friendship is rare.  And we don’t get to see each other in real life– I think we’ve seen each other three times in the last two decades in person.  And still, somehow, we love and trust each other like sisters.  Sisters who need each other.  All of a sudden.  When the shit hits the fan.

So our friendship is based on these epic phone calls, when we both have a wide open window.  And it’s usually when we’re both in pain and really need a friend.  We are both, at age 51, financially independent women.  No hubbie taking care of us.  And whatever’s in the bank, has everything to do with our ability to put it there by mining our talents, creating businesses, and being highly adaptive.  In other words, neither of us has done it the way we were “supposed to” do it.  And that has had its rewards in spades.  Just not necessarily in dollars.

“Can we talk about money?” I said to her.  “Like really talk about money?  In all the ways we need to, but aren’t really supposed to?”

“Yes.  Please!  I need it.”rosie

I went past everything I’ve been taught, and launched in.  I told her what I have in savings.  I told her what I have in my business account.  And I told her what I have in my personal and retirement accounts.  I told her how much my house was appraised for and what I pay for my mortgage every month.

And then I added, “I’m alone in this.  And even though I have great people on my team…I’m really doing all of this alone.  And it’s all been baptism by fire.  I really had no idea what I was doing when I started my business.  I didn’t even know what a mortgage really was, never mind the word amortization.  I still don’t have a clue what that is.”

It was her turn.  She told me her versions of all of the above.  It felt positively liberating.  I trust her.  She trusts me.  And we’re not lying in bed talking about boys and dreams.  We’re talking about the shake down of all of that.  The other side.  The raw reality that we are both faced with.  Will we always be alone in this?  Will we ever have other people in our lives who help us financially?  Will we get a break or will we be the sole generators of income for the rest of our lives?  How can we fortify our financial future?  Our dreams?  Can we even afford to dream?

What I love about us is that we are still those little girl dreamers we once were.  But we now have seasoned reasons why some dreams are worth wrangling right now for sanity’s sake than others.

“I’m so glad we’re having this conversation,” she said.  “Women need to have this conversation.  And I can tell you:  most of them aren’t.”

Why, I wonder?  Is it shame?  Is it that we think we are weak when we speak our truth, especially about money?  Do we think we’ll be judged?  Do we think being stoic is powerful?  I can tell you…it’s not.

What would it take for women to have these conversations?  A completely non-threatening woman in your life who you’ve never had to compare yourself to in waistline or social prowess or cocktail party cleverness?  Someone you never shot the shit with in the school pick-up line, or with whom you felt the pull of gossip or push of bandwagon or zing of local political divide?  I hope not.3333_are-women-more-risk-averse-investors_1

I hope that we can have this conversation with exactly those people you’ve rolled around with in your town, in the local heartbreaks and purchase.  I hope that at your next gathering, you can grab a woman who you know is going through the exact thing you are—divorce, re-invention, empty nest, troubled kids—whatever, and pull her into a side room where no one’s listening and say,

“Sister.  We need to talk.  Are you okay?  And I don’t mean just your heart.  I mean…do you have your affairs in order, financially?  Because I learned baptism by fire, and I have a great financial advisor, and you need to be on top of this.  There’s no shame here, and if there is, it’s time to chuck it out the window.  You are going to be old one day and we live in a country where our Social Security is not enough to live on!  You’ve got to be smart.  You’ve got to plan.  The future is going to happen, if it in fact happens, and you have to be prepared.”

I frankly cannot believe these words are coming out of my heart and mind and onto the page.  Even as I write them, I feel loath to push Publish.  What will my mother think?  What will my WASP kindred say if they read this?  But I don’t want for you what happened to me.  The cold hard reality is this:  The rugs of life get ripped out from underneath us.  No matter how perfect we think our lives are or how hard we’ve worked to dot all the I’s and cross all the T’s.  And we need each other.  We don’t have to do this alone.

So ladies…take a deep breath, gulp, even roll your eyes a little…but think of that friend you can trust, and call her.  Ask her if she’d be willing to talk money with you.  And if she says yes, then get in that mosh pit together and roll around in that mud until you come out knowing you’re not alone, with some pretty good ideas, and a very good plan.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Because that, is priceless.

My dear friend is here.

Here’s a piece I wrote about how I re-invented, in the former editor-in-chief of More Magazine’s  new brain child:  Covey Club.  May it inspire you to mine your passions!

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!  Click here for more info.

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You Need a BREAK!

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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 (one spot left)
May 16-20 (one spot left)
September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

You give yourself a break.  Time away.  You get to feel new ozone on your skin and wander streets that might have you fall between the cracks, and you like it that way.  Your life needs more cracks and more possibility and maybe even more danger.  Things are too plum, shored, sealed up tight.  You need to be sloppy.  Irresponsible, even.  You maybe even need to turn a heel in a crack and fall. Mostly, you need to bum around and forget about things.  You need to stop in a café and have a cappuccino just because why not.  You don’t really drink coffee but a cappuccino looks so good.  You don’t really give yourself those little gemstone pauses these days and you need to.  You need to sit at tables in public and watch the world go by.  You need to get away from your routine—all that sitting alone staring at a computer.  You need to get away from your list—that never-ending list.  You need to get away from that voice which stands behind you with a megaphone, blaring at you all the time and even when you sleep, to do it faster, better, best.  And p.s…you’ll never do it as well as you should, or could or were supposed to.  And the worst of it:  This voice is YOU.

At 4 a.m. you actually sit up in bed and shout, “ENOUGH!  STOP!  Go away!”

And that’s what you need:  you need to go away.  Maybe she’ll stay at home and make perfect grilled cheese sandwiches and remember to pay the property taxes on time, and make sure to have a dozen eggs in the fridge no matter what.  And write thank you notes and send Christmas cards before Christmas and remember everyone’s birthdays and get the driveway plowed at just the right time, before the storm, before the thaw, UNLIKE you…when you fail to consult Mother Nature, and the whole world is an ice-skating rink, and no one has control over their cars or footing.  And it’s all your fault, because you didn’t deal when you should have, could have, were supposed to.  In short, you suck.  Either way, you suck.  So you might as well leave.

Enough!  I’m out of here!  You stay here and do it all right.  I’m going to go get a little, or a lot, lost.  There’s an extra set of keys in the little drawer next to the stove.  Oh, and the propane bill is late.  Hope you have heat.  The woodstove is exceptional.  But there’s zero wood on the front porch, and the path to the woodpile isn’t shoveled, so good freaking luck!

And lo, you find yourself in Mexico.  In a little hill town.  Thin, cobble-stoned streets, full of fallen women.  Just like you.  Divorced.  Middle-aged.  Artists.  Sad.  Looking for happy.  But in the mean-time…just looking for…looking.  They are you and if that’s true, you’ve never looked more hopeless in your life.  But at least you’re not at home.  Staring at your computer.  And at the snow.  And at February.

You need to just…sit.  And let the world go blurry.  Lose time.  Have that one cup of coffee be your only goal.  And maybe you won’t even drink it.  It will just sit there getting cold.  You have no commitment to it.  You can leave it untouched and it will hold nothing against you.  Maybe you order wine instead.  At noon.  And decide you want to sit in a church after.  And then on a park bench.  And then take a nap.  There’s a weight on your back that you need to shake.  It feels like a feral dog and it’s about to grab you, jugular, all the time, unless you keep going and going and going…email by email, buttons– so many buttons, screens, phone calls, gas, bills, heat, groceries, school and sports event after event, parent by parent.  Are we all really doing this so well?  Is anyone else about to be slain by February?  If anyone asked, and if anyone answered, the whole thing might erupt and send ash for miles, across states, to the sea.  So no one does.  We slog.  And we say, “How are you?”  And we say, “I’m fine.”  Are we?

I had to leave.  I had to stop.  I had to get off the orbit and float in space.  I took a week.  I wrote for hours every day in my journal.  By day six, the dog was finally off my back.  I heard it growling around a corner, but it was growling at someone else.  Another person.  A running person.  I was sitting in a church with wine breath and it decided I wasn’t worth it.

A week of this– no 4 a.m. haunts for seven days.  And on day six, I was free.  And I was new.  For one day.  I slept until 11:00.  I sat by a pool and read Vanity Fair (my porn).  I thought about nothing but whatever was in those pages, like some kidnapped socialite who wrote a memoir, and I didn’t really even think too much about her because she looked okay in her polka-dot dress…until I fell asleep in the sun, getting my last fix of Vitamin D.

And then I got my notice from the airline that it was time to check in.  And the dog began growling at me.  Not that other person.  Me.  I warded him off all the way through a four hour wait in Mexico City and nine hours of flights.  And I came home.  And it was all still there.  The very opposite of the green green grass of my vacation.  No one shoveled and we had 20 inches.  The mail stacked up because I forgot to have it held.  The mailbox creaked a refusal when I pried it open.  No one set mouse traps and one (or a whole family) have taken up real estate in my pantry closet—seems they really like pancake mix.  My truck was dead on arrival with a low front tire, at that.  And my homeowner’s insurance is a month late.  Oh, the satellite got turned off too.  I must have had what Holly Go-lightly calls The Mean Reds.  And I don’t feel so new anymore.

I’m up at 4 a.m. again.  Sleeping with the dog.

I have a few more months of this, before the birds come back and promise that the world will melt to color again and myself too.  I look out at the still-snow, deer paths labyrinthine from my blanketed garden to my blanketed front door, as if they too are sick of it and want to come in by the fire.  And I know:  I have a choice.  I can welcome this last rash of dormancy.  I can accept and allow this no thing-ness, this negative space of winter.  I can try to take small sips of that getting lost feeling even with my stacked-up responsibilities.  I can even try to take the dog off my back and let him run around in my Montana field and get all his growling and barking out of his system, at least for a few hours.

And if that’s not true, if the cruelty that is February this year, is not shakable in my own neck of the woods…then I have learned nothing in my life.  And I know for certain that’s not true.  I wrote a whole book about happiness being a choice.  Thank you, February, for giving me practice.  Lots and lots of practice.  I don’t know if practice makes perfect, but I do know that the next time someone asks me how I am, I’m going to suggest that we both answer what is really true.  And I give us both permission to say, “Not so great.  Want to go have a cappuccino?  Or maybe a glass of wine?”

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Haven Winter Blog Series: My Haven

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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
April 18-22
May 16-20
September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

Every year I give my blog over to my Haven Writing Retreats alums for a week or so, and ask them to write on a theme. This year it’s this question: What is your haven and how do you show up for it?

Here is my answer.

You Are My Haven

Laura Di Franco

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You are my haven,

my safe space to be

me.

 

You’re my shelter

in a storm.

The only one

who sees.

 

You feed

my soul,

wrap your arms

around my heart,

hold the pieces

broken apart.

You

are the glue.

 

You’re the mirror

for my soul

how I know

myself

my essence

my purpose

my worth,

get acquainted

with the light

and the dark.

 

You help me

shine

remind me

there’s no more time

to be afraid.

 

What you say

sits softly

in my core

twirling

a magic wand

creating a song

from the shadows

there.

 

Finding you

like a jewel

just lying there

all sparkly and blue

in the mud

saying, “scoop me up.”

It’s like you

were dropped there

from heaven.

My haven

is you,

the calm

the fire

the peace

you inspire

the strength

I feel

in my bones

how my mind

feels light

and free.

 

Thank you

for giving those treasures

to me.

Thank you for

treading

gently,

holding me

firmly,

keeping me

still,

forcing me

into

the healing.

 

You

are my haven.

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Haven Winter Blog Series: My Haven

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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
April 18-22
May 16-20
September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

Every year I give my blog over to my Haven Writing Retreats alums for a week or so, and ask them to write on a theme. This year it’s this question: What is your haven and how do you show up for it?

Here is my answer.

The Chapel

Jennifer Revill

Chapel 1

Amidst the crowded terminals, the sensory assault of the checkpoints, and the rumble of shuttle buses at the curb, there is a place that breeds calm. On this day, I am alone at Our Lady of the Airways chapel at Logan International Airport.  The midday Mass is over, and the dim, brick-walled, low-ceilinged sanctuary is quiet. A decorative wood grid ceiling floats above the rows of pews. (There’s a local joke: it’s appropriate that the pews at the airport chapel have insufficient legroom.) Rows of colored votive candles glow.

When it opened in 1951, this chapel was the first at a US airport, and the first Catholic one. But like many airport chapels throughout the world, it has become nondenominational of necessity. Below one of the Stations of the Cross, there is a neat stack of prayer rugs and a diagram with an arrow pointing towards Mecca.

During my thirty years as a facility manager at this airport, I’ve observed millions of travelers. What they do can be amusing, even endearing, but also aggravating, sometimes downright distressing, and, every so often, illegal. These people want and need many things: a craft-brewed beer, a cinnamon latte, a place to nurse their baby, to charge their phone, or to shed a tear in private. Though they are travelers, they are vulnerable human beings first, who exhibit the complete range of human emotions while under our roof: dread, fury, despondency, anticipation, joy.  Always, they want to feel secure, and to feel certain about what’s going to happen next. It’s my job to help them succeed in this.

I was at Logan on 9/11. That morning, a colleague raced out of his office, shouting, “An aircraft just hit the World Trade Center!” Was this possible? And then he said, “And they’re saying that the plane left from here!” This was downright terrifying. Within an hour, not knowing much more than the rest of a shocked nation, a team of us had gathered at the airport hotel in preparation for…what? This was not an ordinary crash that we were trained to handle. That day, we could only watch the tragedy unfold on television. Holding hands in that hotel conference room, we watched the North Tower collapse, many of us weeping.  The airport chaplain stayed with us all afternoon, tendering comfort and prayers.

Eventually, amidst the uncertainty, we set to work. We received and comforted the families of the crew and passengers on the two airliners that had been lost, who showed up at the airport for lack of any other place to go. Every building, parking garage, tunnel, and rooftop were inspected. We also needed to close and secure every terminal at Logan for the several no-fly days that followed the attacks. Airports are not designed to be locked. This had never been done. It seemed impossible.

But it wasn’t impossible.  How do any of us ever do the many impossible things that we are all called upon to do in a life? Starting from a place of security helps; but if we don’t have that, and we don’t have certainty, we simply stumble forward in faith and hope. As vulnerable human beings, we set to work, doing our best and trusting for grace.

This chapel is my Haven. I come here when I need respite from work stress, or a moment to expand my heart. I think about life, the loss and pain of it and the exultation of it. I say thanks for the people who feel their way through life beside me. This little chapel helps remind me that so much is possible.

My Haven

Natasha Kasprzyk

As a high school English teacher, I’m used to being asked questions.

A lot of questions.

Most of the time, the questions allow for reasonable answers:

What’s a semicolon?

Why does “pneumonia” start with a “p”?

How long does this have to be?

Some questions have answers, but they’re never satisfying:

Why did Candy let Carlson shoot his dog?

How could the jury convict Tom Robinson?

But those are nothing when put up against the mother of all questions:

What does this word mean?

How do we know what a word means? Do we consult the Rosetta Stone? Urban Dictionary? Connotations from 1972, 1986, or 2015? How my nephew names his toys? Is there a “correct” meaning for any word?

Take “haven,” for example. Merriam-Webster’s primary definition is “harbor, port”. So…where a sailboat hangs out when it’s over summer tourism and needs to introvert extra hard?

The secondary definition of “haven” is “a place of safety: refuge.” I don’t get why that’s the second definition. Was it 26 votes shy of taking first after the dictionary gods found themselves deadlocked and handed over the reins to Survey Monkey, letting plebeians make the final call?

The older I get, the more strongly I believe that to truly honor a word, one should pick it apart, turn it inside out, see how it looks next to last year’s favorite sweater, the hurrah of this year’s 4th of July fireworks, a hot mug of tea…and how it fits inside one’s heart.

Or, in my case, how one’s heart creates space – becomes a haven – for another, and for itself.

In March 2011, my heart was beating too fast, working too hard, and becoming too full of what didn’t serve it. If I couldn’t realign its purpose, I didn’t know how much of my original self I’d be able to save.

In one grateful moment, I realized that in order to be me, to be my true self, I needed to take care of someone else.

I’ll never forget the afternoon I brought him home. He just stared at me, his brown eyes boring holes into my soul, wondering if he’d be safe, loved, protected…and, perhaps, what my expectations of him would be.

Don’t put him in bed with you, they said. He’ll never sleep in his own bed, they said.

We’ll be fine, I said.

Seven years later, we’re still fine.

I’ve shaped my life around him. I make sacrifices for him. He can drive me absolutely bonkers for three days straight, but as soon as I have to turn my back and leave him with people who love him, I miss him.

He is my everything.

This is how I show up for him, my haven: I make room in my heart because I love him so much.

He radiates joy when we go to the park, as he runs and spins in circles until he’s out of breath. He brings joy and smiles to friends and strangers because, really, he’s just that cute.

And, at the end of the day, he curls up in my lap, nudges my legs with his head, lets out a deep sigh and a soft smack of his lips as he settles into sleep.

To love him and see a brighter, more interesting world through his eyes — he is my haven, he will forever be the primary definition for that word in my personal dictionary, and I’ll show up for him for as long as he’s here and years after he’s gone.

My baby boy.

My first love.

My first dog.

Sully.

Steamboat Sully

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Haven Winter Blog Series: My Haven

 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
April 18-22
May 16-20
September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

Every year I give my blog over to my Haven Writing Retreats alums for a week or so, and ask them to write on a theme. This year it’s this question: What is your haven and how do you show up for it?

Here is my answer.

Lost Haven

Anne Arthur

“What’s your Haven?”

Shock waves running through my body, my brain scrambling for an immediate answer. What…where’s my Haven?

Blank. I am running blank, turning my attention to some other topic, avoiding the response to such painful question. Too painful.

Slowly, over days, memories flash through. Each having its own effect on my heart, my body. I still refuse to let them all in. Until, finally, I allow my thoughts to face reality.

Sweet summer days on the steps leading to my childhood home. My favorite place to play with my cuddly cat, while tiny red beetles hurry through, contouring my dirty little feet barring their way. Haven.

Roosted in the tree’s branch fork, munching bell-apples, contemplating my oh so confusing teenage life. Haven.

Years later, I sit on my terrace perched high on a hill in Haiti, feet resting on its balustrade, facing the green, wide plain surrounded by chains of mountains, bordered by the Caribbean Sea. The soothing peace is always instant. At the beauty of this spectacular view, all stress of downtown’s busyness, of slum’s ugliness, of people’s harshness falls off me. Breathing, inhaling the sweet smell of tropical flowers, my heart stills. Haven.

Another terrace, another European life. Snow has fallen, the world is silent. Stars twinkle in the dark night. Wrapped in a cozy blanket, I breathe the crisp air. Refreshing my soul, soothing the heated arguments that are part of my days. Stilling the ache, healing the scars. Haven.

In a whirlwind, I was back in the tropics. Another island, another terrace. Wide space, filled with enormous pots of Bougainvillea, Jasmin, tropical flowers of any kind. Lush, green grass in front of me. An old white wooden bench in a far corner, shaded by pink-blooming orchid trees, their long branches swaying in a light breeze. Far away, the Blue Mountains, majestic, impressive, beautiful. I sit on the comfy cushions of our royal-blue bench, a cup of finest Blue Mountain Coffee beside me. Dreaming, sighing with content. I craved a new life. I found it. Topped off with a light-filled dwelling in a quiet street amidst busy Kingston, with views to soothe away any storm of my life. Haven. Twelve years later, I returned to the room of my teenage years. I moved my old table to the bay window, observing the change of seasons, enjoying the gift of this year-long stay in the village. Spring and summer long gone, this Fall was special and beautiful. The trees that just donned bright autumn colors now wear mounts of snow.

I look up from my laptop. The contrast of sparkling snow and blue sky is stunning. Christmas is coming. An eventful year will soon end. At this table, I am writing the account of these past months, yearning to spend a last Christmas with my mother.

I bought a smaller sized Christmas tree and placed it at the foot of her hospital bed. She enjoys the lights and the tinsel, while her own window displays the snow-covered front yard and village street.

Some withered red roses still hang onto branches of our large bush, each dressed up with a hat of snow. Mami hangs on too, often dozing off, her strength fading.

I return to my own window, at peace. Our time together is a long bitter-sweet goodbye, but a good one. We are both seeking, Heaven and Haven.

Back in Haiti. At last. Forging yet another new life. Unexpected, unsettled, it’s future unknown. Still restless.

Today, I am floating. Shocked to realize that I haven’t found another Haven yet. I am seeking, still.

Ocean

Kathleen Majorsky

Myhaven

Here I sit. Next to my haven, the Pacific Ocean. I’ve only lived here for a minute, but every morning we greet each other like long lost soul mates. Like somehow we’ve been tethered together for many life times yet only now is the perfect time to experience each other’s presence.

I’m home. Home to the natural beauty around me.

Home to myself.

Finally.

Take a breath.

Welcome.

Like soul mates do, we share. Deeply.

Me, I tell her things I don’t share with anyone in human form: my fears, my dreams, my deep soul longings. I trust her completely. We both know she won’t tell.

For her, the stories she shares are less secrets to keep and more sage wisdom she’s swept up along her shores over time. Dispensing it freely, and when I need it the most.

She tells me to roar when the situation demands it. Roar for the pain and suffering in the world. Roar for joy. Roar for myself.

She tells me to dance often. Dance to her rhythm. Dance to my rhythm, my heart beating in time with her waves.

She tells me there will always be high tides and low tides. Her advice to handle them? Flow.

Her vast presence alone tells me to be humble. Every morning, I stand on her shore and wonder how people cannot believe in a higher power when she so gently reminds us of our smallness.

She tells me to persist. No matter how often the shore sends her away, she keeps coming back. Always.

She tells me that there is a time for stillness and listening. Skills that get honed and shaped on her shores, for me, daily.

My spiritual connection to the Pacific Ocean runs deep. I have a lot to learn from her. Our time together is imperative to my well-being, and it is non-negotiable.

The Pacific Ocean.

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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

073db487f4c4c2354d17ccad8d24eb24

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 Winter Blog Series: My Haven

 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
April 18-22
May 16-20
September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

Every year I give my blog over to my Haven Writing Retreats alums for a week or so, and ask them to write on a theme. This year it’s this question: What is your haven and how do you show up for it?

Here is my answer.

A Natural Haven

Donna Bunten

tree journaling

I am not in a wilderness, not on a mountain top, not by a rushing river. I sit nestled in the lap of my Grandmother Tree, a kindly old western red cedar, surrounded by nettles and vanilla leaf in a patch of urban forest.  I can easily hear the four-lane highway a half-mile away and the college kids on the soccer field nearby.

Yet Nature is all around me.  The soft breeze dances in the branches of red alders and big-leaf maple trees.  The woods are full of unseen Swainson’s thrushes, their ethereal flute-song the only clue to their presence.  Kinglets and chickadees and warblers twitter endlessly as they flutter in the leafy tree tops.  Everything is vibrant and glowing, urgently re-creating leaves and fruit and feathers.

All I have to do is pay attention.  No binoculars, no field guides, just the sense organs I was born with:  eyes, ears, nose, tongue, skin.  I bring my journal because I like to write about what I’m experiencing, but it’s not necessary.  Enjoying my haven starts with “being,” not “doing,” with awareness, curiosity, and a willingness to be still for a short period.

Being in Nature (at a sit spot, on a spirit walk, or sitting on a patio) supports us.  It’s where we came from.  Our primitive brains evolved out there to collect data about our surroundings for our survival.  But now all the demands and distractions of modern life, especially our computers and smart phones, put a real burden on our brains.  Our brains were designed to sip incoming data through a straw—now we’re trying to drink from a firehose.

Journaling in my natural haven helps me slow down and connect with the joy of being 100% my authentic self.  I do it for the sheer joy of it.  Sitting still, opening my senses, paying attention, I feel my tight mind and body loosen. The act of writing pulls my body further into the experience—my hand is moving.  Writing the words causes me to pay more attention to detail. I move from being lost in worry about tomorrow’s dramas into an immediate sense of aliveness in this place, this moment, with simple observation and plain words.

Tom Brown, Jr. says, “A person without a past has never seen a tree, a mud puddle, or a blade of grass.  A person without a future is free of worries and fears and open to whatever may cross his/her path.”  Beginner’s mind.

What if I could see my life with fresh eyes, like the person seeing a blade of grass for the first time?  What if I allowed for the possibility that things are not what they seem?  Maybe my stories of how I think things are would lose their energy.  What if that energy was now available to me for other purposes?  Who knows what might cross my path?

Parker Palmer advises that if you want to see a wild animal, don’t go crashing and thrashing about in the woods.  Sit down quietly against a tree—listening, watching, and waiting for the animal to reveal itself when it feels safe.

Like a wild animal, my soul feels safe as I lean against the Grandmother Tree.  Free from stories, safe to come forth and experience life with curiosity and wonder.  Beginner’s mind.

Portability

Mary Novaria

Haven Photo 2018

When asked how I like living in Los Angeles, my usual response is that it’s a “like/hate” relationship. I hate that L.A. is so far from our former home and family in the Midwest, and that the traffic can be absolutely soul crushing. I like the plenteous sunshine, palm trees, and the creative energy and community here.

I even love L.A. a little if my day involves walking on my favorite, rugged, rocky beach, or hiking with my husband and dog in the Santa Monica Mountains. Those are among the places that have shown me that the concept of a haven, for me, is about intention. With my body, mind and soul present and open and spontaneous, my haven is portable. It travels with me, available to switch on, inspired by nature and creativity, or by the need to escape and rest.

A few years ago, I had a blissful haven experience in the café at the Tate Modern. It was a Sunday—Father’s Day—and I’d walked miles around London before strolling through the galleries. Despite the bustle around me, when I picture myself that day sitting at a tiny table with a cheese plate, a glass of wine, and my journal, I am utterly and blissfully alone, in retreat with my thoughts and words and a meditation on how my late father had instilled in me his great love of art.

Recently, I drove up the coast for a personal retreat. My hotel was dreary, but near the beach. I made a little altar of sorts in my room—a shell and a rock I’d found on the sand, a piece of amethyst I’d picked up in a wonderful shop along the seaside, a fragrant jasmine blossom, and a copy of Rumi. I sprayed the room with a feng shui spray called Sacred Sanctuary, whose label suggests: “Create your own realm of light and delight.”

For two days I wrote and read, meditated and rested, having turned that lackluster space into my haven. During that time, I was inspired to create a sacred space at home—a refuge from my usual perch on a bar stool at the kitchen counter.

For the two-and-a-half years my husband and I had lived in this house, I’d ignored the cozy deck off our guestroom. It’s a full story above the ground. The height and seeing the earth through the wooden slats of the floor gave me the willies. I had to get past it. It helped to put down a rug. I found two old wicker chairs on Craigslist, lined the railing with hanging candles, and put up a few whimsical pieces of art.

The first day I sat in this new haven of mine, I dubbed it “The Tree House.” I can see the blue sky through the branches, and hear the thrum of a hummingbird and the Scrub Jays and squirrels rustling in the fallen leaves below. In the morning, when the sun is on this side of the house, the dog takes her morning nap. She, too, is haven for me in all of her senior dog sweetness.

Now, I hardly ever think about the height as I sit with my laptop or meditation music and a cup of tea. The visceral aura of this haven is portable. With the right mindset and openness of heart, I can close my eyes and fly away, imagining myself a bird in my own wee tree house, wherever I may be, creating my own realm of light and delight.

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Haven Winter Blog Series: My Haven

Processed with VSCOcam with hb1 presetCome 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 for 2018: Click here for more info!

February 28-4
April 18-22
May 16-20
September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

Every year I give my blog over to my Haven Writing Retreats alums for a week or so, and ask them to write on a theme. This year it’s this question: What is your haven and how do you show up for it? 

Here is my answer.

My Safe Haven

Susan B. Clarke

Susan B. Clarke

For the longest time, I believed my safe haven was literally a place called, The Haven, a personal and professional development center on Gabriola Island in British Columbia.

In 1984, I arrived on Gabriola for a five-day program called Come Alive with my sister Penny.  At the time, I was dealing with stage IV non-Hodgkin lymphoma. I was considered terminal with a projected lifeline of three months.

My sister had heard about Come Alive and wanted to spend some time with me before I died. We hadn’t been close for many years, and a friend of Penny’s suggested Come Alive as a way to bridge the gap.

I didn’t come to The Haven to heal. I came to say goodbye.

However, during those five days, I witnessed a way of relating and being with people I’d never known was possible.

The program leaders encouraged us and the 22 other participants to show up more fully. We were invited to breathe deeply, speak honestly, and listen with a commitment to consider a different reality than our own. Finally, the leaders asked us to be responsible for our choices.

On the last morning, the leaders of Come Alive and founders of The Haven, Doctors Ben Wong and Jock McKeen, invited their friend Father Jack, a Roman Catholic Priest, to lead a healing circle for me.

When Father Jack walked in wearing his robes, the crowd erupted. People were outraged with and resentful of the Catholic church. I was stunned at their vicious reaction.

Father Jack responded, “I hear you and agree with the anger you feel towards me and the church. Let’s talk about it. I will listen.”

People vented their rage and betrayal in a heated conversation lasting 40 minutes. It was not a polite or ‘respectful’ process. It was loud, angry, and intense. At some point, though, there was a palpable shift. I could tell people felt seen and heard.

As someone who wasn’t Catholic, but who had experienced significant trauma at the hands of a church leader, I was blown away by the raw, real dialogue I had just experienced.

People decided to stay to be a part of the healing circle, during which I, as the recipient, felt a visceral shift in my very cells. To this day, I believe witnessing and sharing in that level of vulnerability, honesty, and real dialogue was what turned my life around.

So, I had a good reason to believe that The Haven was my safe haven. I even moved there for 14 years. To be honest, I was fearful of leaving, but I did.  Now, thirty years later, I’m part of the faculty, leading the Come Alive program.

I no longer believe my safe haven is a place. Yes, I love all I learned there. However, my safe haven is now inside of me. It’s my ability to create moments, spaces, and relationships, where I and another can show up real, raw, and honest.

It isn’t easy to get there sometimes.

It can be messy and ugly.

It can be painful and intense.

However, the willingness to go through the mess is for me the only path to ‘safe.’

I have my safe haven with my partner CrisMarie. The work we do at thrive! is helping people bring more of who they are to everything they do. Even our book, The Beauty of Conflict, is written to help people find their safe haven beyond ‘right doing and wrong doing.’

 

Dawn Treading

Andrea Dunn

After four and a half uninterrupted years of pregnancy, infant-nursing, or both simultaneously, I devolved into two boobs and a uterus. I was a 34-year-old diaper changing milk-trough. Tinny jingles from light-up plastic baby toys ran on repeat in my head (in three different languages!) while my rich inner narrative life suffocated, unable to breathe under the heavy cloak of exhaustion.

When my youngest baby was about six months old, she settled into a non-negotiable daily rhythm: she woke up at 5:00 each morning, and spent the next 45 minutes nursing, cooing and cuddling, before heading back to her crib for a long morning nap. My sleep deprived body clawed at the opportunity for more rest, but I swear, my three-year-old son and 20-month-old daughter could smell sleep settling back over me, and instinctively got up to prevent it. They shared some sophisticated method of keeping me knackered. Day after day, I faced my littles sleepy and resentful. My weariness coupled with their dependence forged a version of myself I hardly recognized. I became mentally disorganized, raging, fully enslaved to my overwrought emotions. In short, I was not nice.

In time, I recognized an alternative staring me in the face, presented in the tiny package of my baby’s morning rhythm. It was the negative space all around my beckoning pillow. Instead of clambering for shut-eye, I stayed awake after putting my littlest down for her morning nap. I began my daily practice of filling up on a precious hour of aloneness.

During this time, I could drink at least one entire cup of piping-hot coffee. I could re-engage in a set aside spiritual practice of prayer and scripture reading, and I could breathe and rev up for the day ahead, the day of very small people needing me in the most basic and fundamental of ways. As a result, I faced my day energized, ready for the job of being their world. I took fewer talon swipes at my babies since I was filled enough to actually enjoy them.

Miraculously, I made it through the sleepless years, and so did my babies! Now those kiddos are ten, nine, and seven. They still need me, but not in the same ways. The youngest is still a morning person, but she no longer drives my daily rhythm.

However, I still rise for my precious morning practice, which over the years has birthed many powerful realizations about God, about the world waiting for me beyond my door, and about me. I continue to get up during the 5:00 hour, relying on an alarm that I almost always respect, even if I’ve gone to bed too late the night before. I show up morning after morning, because each quiet daybreak is a deposit into my reservoir, equipping me to be morning light in a dark and tired world, to face the hours ahead with joy and hope. Each morning is an investment in me, one where I take time to breathe, pray, listen, meditate, and load up on my morning fuel: caffeine. This discipline, this time to bring my thoughts before God and listen for his, is my haven, offering me what others might find on a beach or in a favorite garden. The location for my haven has varied over the last seven years, but it always looks about the same: me in my jammies, steaming hot coffee, my dog, my Bible, and a comfortable place to sit. This is my haven, my port, my refuge, my anchorage, my filling station.

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Haven Winter Blog Series: My Haven

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 for 2018: Click here for more info!

February 28-4
April 18-22
May 16-20
September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

Every year I give my blog over to my Haven Writing Retreats alums for a week or so, and ask them to write on a theme. This year it’s this question: What is your haven and how do you show up for it? 

Here is my answer.

Happy Hour With Chickens

Katherine Cox Stevenson, RN, PhD

Katherine Cox Stevenson, RN, PhD

Three favorite things: happy hour, writing, and my chickens.

“Cheers, chickens! Thank you for being a key to getting my life back.”

Peony, Lady Violet, Marigold, Boots, Lavender, Periwinkle, and Splash don’t acknowledge my raised glass of red wine, instead focused on mealworms, a daily favorite treat. Scratch, scratch as they dance. Left foot, right foot, left again. Pause. Head down to check out what tasty morsel might be revealed. Peep. Cluck. Peck, peck. Poofy lacy bums up and down.

Comfortably seated near their coop, I sigh in contentment on this mid December lovely late afternoon. My body registers a nice ache from a solid day of gardening, finally getting the garlic in. The chickens helped me, giving new meaning to pleasant company. Their intense curiosity with everything I do often makes me laugh out loud. The air smells fresh with a hint of the newly changed coop straw bedding. Total quiet except chickens and an eagle call.

The chickens and I share a serene refuge on our little homestead on a tiny island. My robin egg blue colored little house sits high on a hilltop overlooking the vast Salish Sea. Before I put pen to paper, I think about how far I have come since my husband Matt died last year. So ill, heading for a wheelchair, having lost myself for over eight years to Matt’s rare and horrid type of dementia. One morning, as I hung onto the bed and dresser trying to walk to the bathroom, my soul said, “Get chickens to heal and live again.”

Chickens!? I always wanted to be a farmer but knew nothing about chickens. I doubted my stamina to take them on, but my soul kept nudging. I talked with women chicken experts, found an online resource, and took the plunge. Got a coop built with all the necessary safety barriers and purchased heritage babies from an off-island farm. As I cared for them, getting to know their unique personalities, I began to emotionally and physically heal. We are good for each other.

Lately, I say, “I love my life.”

A far cry from the years I said to my counsellor, “The best way out of this is to just die.”

Flashback! Waiting for Matt to join me on the front deck. The sliding glass door opens, and he stomps out carrying my suitcase. I watch in horror as he hoists it high, throwing it over the fence, rolling end over end down the driveway. His facial expression one I had never seen before: clenched jaw, eyes flashing, and evil looking. Yelling, “See that, fucking bitch! Do you see that!? That is what I am going to do to you. I want you out of here!”

Then he locked me out of the house. I get a lot of PTSD flashbacks about Matt’s behavior and my fear. Being with the chickens and their gentle togetherness allows me to stay present, take a deep breath, and let the flashbacks pass through.

Back to the chickens. They are preening now, grooming important to keep feathers oiled and clean. Light is fading. Then suddenly like flipping a switch, they are still in a trance like state. After several minutes, Marigold leads the single file procession into the coop and up the ramp into the safe night roosting area.

Darkness is upon us. I finish my wine and journal entry, lock and double check all three coop bolts. I can’t wait to tell the chickens about the puppy soon coming to live with us.

“Good night, darlings. Sleep well. Thank you.”

My Haven

Patricia Young

Patricia Young

Along with countless other writers, readers, list makers and thought provokers, I’ve found solitude in tiny coffee shops.  I’ve written in a booth at the diner, and even while sitting on boulders with mallards at the edge of the Hudson River. I’ve found inspiration driving the winding road of the Eagle’s Nest on my way to a lake in Port Jervis, as well as developing plot twists with my toes in the sand where land meets the Atlantic in Chatham.

Yet, my Haven is my home.

This IS where the story began, although ideas will present themselves unexpectedly anywhere, or a person’s face in the checkout line at the grocery store becomes a character I’ve been searching for.  My creativity as a writer, my permission to be vulnerable, the chapters building one on top of another, happen at home.

Home is not just where I keep my memories, but also my treasures: my mother’s artwork, the voices of my grown children passing by, our three dogs singing the songs of their people, and my husband. Which I’ve learned after more than thirty years of marriage is not always about that loving feeling. It is the ability to live together and support one another as individuals. We are very different people than when we first met. It takes a lifetime to truly understand another person. Warren has given me a shoulder to rest my weary head on, an arm to give me the strength to keep going no matter how many rejection letters arrive, and his ear along with his heart–which has listened to the drafts and rewrites as the story grew, always encouraging, never doubting that this is what I should be doing, even at times when I doubted myself. I recognize this is a gift, and I cherish it.

All of these parts built my Haven. Past the tears and sorrows, the grief and joys, it is not just my castle in the shape of a 1942 Cape Cod, it is much more complicated, and it is very, very simple. My Haven is my place to be completely me without explanation or judgments. From the kitchen following my grandmother’s biscuit recipe, to the hammock between two trees in the backyard to my overstuffed chair facing the fireplace. My Haven is the Japanese maple outside my window, the scent of the lilac bush in spring, the flox outside the laundry room. It is all interwoven to become my sanctuary.

In some respects, I’ve grown stingy. I want and need to keep my private life private. It is important to me, maybe it has something to do with security in this internet world. Perhaps it is due in part to modesty. What would photographing my stuff tell you about me when the dialog is missing? Maybe that’s just too risky. So here I am in my office;  it is where I close the glass-paneled door without shutting life out, where I can type the fastest and watch the light change as the day ages or the night tucks in around me.  Where my NaNoWriMo challenge in 2013 gave birth to my first novel “Northeast of 80” and where each rejection letter is stacked, bringing me another step closer, anticipating success as I continue this journey as a writer. On the path, Laura pointed out in her Montana Haven.

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Haven Winter Blog Series: My Haven

Processed with VSCOcam with 7 preset

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 for 2018. Click here for more info!

February 28-4
April 18-22
May 16-20
September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

Every year I give my blog over to my Haven Writing Retreats alums for a week or so, and ask them to write on a theme. This year it’s this question: What is your haven and how do you show up for it? 

Here is my answer.

My Haven

Helen HaileSelassie

Helen HaileSelassie

There are plenty of life occasions that entice us to go in search of a place of refuge, of a space that promises calm and safety. My haven is shared amongst many and yet unique only to me. It is within the confines of an age-old building with explicitly carved stone walls encasing stained colorful windows that capture the reflection of light and disperse it into countless angles of rays. It is a church I frequent, a corner of it I have silently claimed as my own, the small encapsulated space within the grander place that has relentlessly and benevolently heard my secrets, witnessed my tears, and shouldered my burdens. It is the place that allows me to revert into my soul and lets me touch the purest surface of my consciousness.

From the moment I open the gigantic wooden doors that require the strength of both my arms, I am welcomed by the strange yet familiar scent of incense. As smell is one of the strongest triggers of memory, I am inevitably transposed into a space that is warm, forgiving, and guiding. The echoes of my footsteps on the linoleum floor awakens me to the reality of my physical surrounding. I look around and see the wooden pews with a bible on each seat lining the length of the church. I make my way past the tired looking pews, no doubt invisibly bearing the mortal burdens of unconsoled souls. I reach the front of the church with the elaborately decorated altar before I pass the innumerable candles lighting away the sins of the worldly existence and begging to be saved for a life that is unknown. With each step I take, getting closer to the quiet corner I always kneel by, I can feel the pressure of the days and months leaving my body, the past and the future losing significance, and only being surrounded by the peace that seems to emanate from the unseen and intangible to penetrate acutely into my mind, heart and soul.

As I kneel on both knees, I am reminded of the countless things I am grateful for. This mere act of being thankful for my blessings instills in me a sense of fulfillment and calm that would normally be elusive in the daily routine of life. As my prayer continues from thankfulness to that of guidance, I feel in touch with a divine being. Some would say this is the power of the creator and others would argue that it is merely reconnecting with the God in us. I choose not to get too entangled with the intricacy that has no perceptible answer of whether there is a divine being in all of us that we can tap into through prayer and meditation. But I know only the feeling of sacredness that exists in the place I find to be my Haven, the source of which is beyond the tangible world and lies in the secrets of the divine. It is the place that has quieted down my anxieties, delivered the answers to my worries, guided me to follow the path that has been set and assured me that if I practice letting go, the answers will always manifest. So time and again, when the natural and ordinary world fails me, I show up at my haven to make peace with the unknown in return for immediate calm and eternal joy.

Haven Winter

Brenda Johnson Kame’enui

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Tall Douglas fir and cedar trees line the road, boughs bowed to the ground with the burden of snow. A breeze tosses branches and sunshine catches flakes in flight. The glitter against the sky is dazzling.

“My stars!” I say. What? My mother, widely recognized for her pithy expressions, used to say that, but I don’t remember ever saying it myself. In the few years since Mom died, my sister and I have entertained ourselves with imitations of our mother, but we haven’t called on the stars.

You’d be taller if you didn’t have so much turned under at the ankle; you look like something sent for that couldn’t come; a horse apiece; six of one, half dozen of another; don’t wish your life away.

This is a star-studded moment. The sky, icy blue between trees, above trees, and through lacy branches, features a faint star here and there. I’ve braced myself against the cold with mittens and mufflers to spare, and I point my skis down the trail. There’s nothing left but the poetry of this moment in this place. I’m lucky to spend a week in the North Cascade Mountains.

The sun’s warmth releases snow from an upper branch. “Plop.” The silly sound repeats on a sunny stretch of the path ahead. The snow is cold and dry, and the trail is fast–someone skied out ahead of me this morning. The hills are a satisfying challenge, and the rhythm is easy. Lift, glide; lift, glide.

I break new trail as I cross Railroad Creek on the footbridge, moving through fresh snow piled in a narrow wedge between railings. The creek’s riffles reflect the sun, and the water is fast but clear. I can count the rocks on the river bottom. If I stood here long enough, I imagine I would spot fish tucked under speckled rocks at the edge of an eddy.

Across the creek, I climb a tabletop hill. It’s a long, steep cut through fresh snow, but I’m not breathless as I reach the top and pick up speed. The North Cascades loom in dazzling splendor both behind me and up ahead.

At home in Oregon, the Cascade Range forms an orderly line—plink, plink, plink—of volcanic mountains, from the Crater Lake caldera, north past the Three Sisters and Mt. Jefferson to Mt. Hood. I’ve skied below and between these ancient volcanoes, and there I’ve also uttered variations of awe and wonder. On a recent ski to Potato Hill, I proclaimed, over and over again, “I am so happy!” The  constant refrain didn’t annoy my skiing companion, who made the same excited exclamation. When we skied into a clearing with a view of the Three Sisters and Three-Fingered Jack, we both shrieked.

The North Cascades of Washington are different. The “Alps of the West,” these Cascades tower in magnificent clusters. Every step is a photographic moment. I ski a wide arc on the wide tabletop, taking advantage of the 360-degree view. This is the best. I am so happy.

When I leave the flat stretch to ski down through the trees, I must pay attention to navigate the trail. I hear nothing but the glide of my skis and the wind soughing in the trees. I move in and out of their shelter, careful to avoid the tree wells.

I ski from one sanctuary in the woods to the next. There is no place I would rather be. I arrive at another clearing with another imposing view. The mountains have moved even closer. My stars! Don’t wish your life away. 

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