Tag Archives: self-care

Haven 4:00 a.m.– Dealing with Meanies

Haven (4)

Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2018

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

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

There’s a big difference between taking a stand for yourself, and playing hard ball.  I’m not sure exactly what it is, but I can’t stop thinking about it.  One is a fight.  One isn’t.  They both originate from someone wanting something of you that crosses a line.  And it’s usually something hard to face.  For me, it all arrives in my email inbox.

I try hard not to look at my email inbox first thing in the morning.  Or Facebook.  I try to wake slowly, to let the morning give itself to me.  Then tea, back in bed.  Some reading.  Usually poetry.  Nothing too close to the way life behaves in a typical day, unless its Sunday.  I want my early mornings to feel like all of Sunday feels.  Reflective. Paused.  Soft.  And then…the assault.

I go down to my office for it.  I sit at my mothership computer.  I often feel the urge to fasten a seatbelt across my lap.  A few times, I’ve reached for one.  I wiggle the mouse.  The screen light glares at me.  I try not to prepare for battle.  Maybe there’ll be something nice in there.  Someone will want to come on my writing retreat.  Someone else might have read something I’ve written and taken the time to thank me.  Those are always nice.  I answer every single one of them, just to honor gratitude.  Or maybe there’s a note from an editor who wants to publish something I’ve written.  Those are the best ones.  Well, except for the ones from my kids when they just want to say that they love me and there’s no mention of money.

But every day…there’s always something in there that scares me.  At the very least, triggers cause for concern.  A late bill, a compromised account, a wasband ordeal, a rejection from an editor, another octogenarian from my hometown passed, funding for the arts denied—that stuff.  And let’s not even bring up the news.  I’ve stopped watching.  But I don’t have to solve those problems.  The ones in my email inbox:  yes.

I feel myself bracing.  Conjuring steely reserve.  I think of what I’ve learned from therapists along the way:  Use “I” statements.  Write the angry note first.  Then delete it.  I take my own advice:  No need to fight.  Simply say what you need to say—the rest is not your problem.  Or consider the source.  Take responsibility where necessary.  Don’t over-apologize.  Be clear, succinct, to the point.  Tangents or too much explaining are not your friends right now.  You’re not writing a novel.  And please, calm your inner persuader.  She’s so exhausting for everyone, yourself included.

And there it all is, the good, the bad, and the ugly, along with Flash Sales for things I’d never buy and eblasts from people I’ve never heard of, and reminders to attend cultural events in cities hundreds of miles away.  Delete delete delete…answer all the goodies…until what’s left is a honed stack of bad bones. Second cup of tea.  Maybe a smoothie, though heat feels more helpful.  I get the basic bad done first.  And then it’s time for the mean ones.  For those, I think of Gandalf raising his sword.  Don’t you have at least one or two meanies in your life?  I try not to, but some of them are unavoidable.  Sometimes I’m there for hours, composing those short little to-the-point emails just so.  Stakes are high.  Pushing Send too soon could cost me in more ways than one.

My goal:  to take a stand.  I tried playing hard ball a few times.  It was the most inauthentic thing I’ve ever done.  And I suck at it.  Truth is, hard ball isn’t necessary.  Hard ball hurts the pitcher and the batter.  I’ve watched a lot of baseball games.  But here’s the thing:  in most of those mean emails…the author wants me to take a good swing.  And miss.  I’ve learned not to swing.  Yet in most cases, some sort of answer is required.  You owe them none of your emotional supply…and still, the emotions are high and sometimes as unruly as they are untethered.

So here’s my new way, and it works:

I write it like it could be published in the local newspaper.  Facts only.  Journalistic, not Op-Ed.  I take a stand for what needs to be supported.  And then I leave the game.  I know I did it right if I don’t hear back.  I know I did it right if it doesn’t wake me up at 4:00 a.m. feeling like I have to save a burning orphanage full of children—a reoccurring dream of mine.  No thanks.  Taking a stand is holding up a hand and saying, “Enough.  Solution: ______.  Here’s what I know to be the bottom line.”  And yes, sometimes, you have to ramp that stand up.  Stand really tall and draw that line in concrete.  You have to dust off that sword and say, “You shall not pass!”  But it doesn’t have to take you down with it.  Thanks, Gandalf for being willing to fall into the fiery pit.  We don’t have to follow you.  I’d rather have another cup of tea.  And go for a walk in the snow.Forward

 

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Haven Winter Blog Series: My Haven

IMG_0522Come 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

Noha Al-Kadhi

My Haven

It has been a steady flood of colossal losses.

Within a window of six years, grief depleted me, starting with the tragic loss of my father, followed by that of my grandmother, only to be shortly shadowed with the sudden parting of my Basma, and ending–as it all started–tragically, with my husband passing away in my arms.

In the aftermath of those irreplaceable losses, I found myself in a position of choosing between doing what is right as opposed to what is popular. I chose the former.

And in doing so, I also lost a great deal.

In the wake of these past six years, which seemed the longest of my life, yet shortest…

Years that have been tremendously challenging, yet rewarding…

In the outcome of the immense losses, I have found great gain…

In these years, I have grown and risen from the brinks of despair only to find hope and optimism…

And in this process, I have learned how much I can endure and persevere…

How much I can continue to give, receive, and carry on, even if that meant starting from scratch and rebuilding from square one.

And as I slowly emerge from this prolonged submersion, as I finally begin to catch my breath, as I start to settle in from all the chaos, and gradually quiet the noise surrounding everything that was once a part of me but now ceases to be…

I gradually wean myself off conventional notions and comfort zones and embark on a new path, a new life, trenching foreign ground where true colors bloomed into authentic bonds, and others dissolved into nothingness.

I have come to taste, feel, and touch the motions of recovery, the liberation of detoxification, and the freedom of sacred spaces, along with the comfort of solitude and learning diverse paths towards replenishing one’s energy.

Throughout this journey, I have come to discover my haven.

It is the harbor that I cannot identify as a single place, action, person, or object.

I have always found haven in my sons’ eyes, their smiles, in their happiness and joy.

I have found haven in old friendships and new ones alike, and all of which have never ceased to show up and stand tall.

I have found haven in the abundance of love with which my family continues to fuel my soul.

I am privileged to have found haven in the support from those I never expected, the many beautiful souls and countless faces that have touched my heart and blessed my life, regardless of the element of place where continents stand distances and oceans divide spaces.

Haven in the peacefulness of my powdery blue clad bedroom, perched on my dark blue armchair that sits in the far right corner beside the tall window that faces north.

Haven upon the gold colored padded mat, embroidered in arabesque designs, placed at the perfect angle towards Mecca, on which I kneel covered in my cotton cream wrap, my forehead to the ground whilst the call for sunrise prayer sounds euphoniously in the distant background.

Haven in my father’s memory, my eternal haven, my guardian angel…the soul of my soul and the heart of my heart.

These are all my havens and the refuge from all the mayhem.

However, my real haven lives in me…and it has emerged in the process of self-discovery, as I continue to recognize the fragments of myself that got lost as I traveled through the motions of existing, as I welcome and as I begin to realize who I am indeed.

In trusting my path and allowing it to merely be…knowing I am forever held, unceasingly cradled, and eternally supported.

I have found all these havens, in which I have come to witness how a world of love can guide a person safely back home.

Studio 14

Wendy Yellin Hill

Wendy Hill

The day I sign the lease for my very first painting studio – an enormous, double-storied space with four very large, and very empty, walls — I feel so utterly unqualified that I am sure the landlord sees the word “Fraud!” written in neon letters on my forehead. I mean, sure, I talk a good game: I chatter away at cocktails parties how I worked for the late, great Irving Penn (true), that I trained as a photographer in NYC (also true if training is tantamount to wandering around the East Village with a camera), and that I have “always” painted. But by “always” what I really mean is that I take an occasional painting class when my schedule (read: family) permits. The classes are sporadic — they are often cancelled due to weather — and I lack discipline. As I push paint around, hoping for a good result or a compliment from a succession of increasingly random art teachers, I know that I am going to leave my paintings behind when the semester ends.

I soon realize that I will never become a painter, at least not a good one, by attending 3-hour art classes at the local JCC standing elbow-to-elbow with octogenarians in comfortable shoes. The classes afford me neither the space nor the time to actualize what is in my head. Thus, I want a studio of my own. But, still. What business do I have renting a studio in a building filled with real artists? Who am I kidding? When I sign the lease my palms are sweaty. I try not to flinch when the landlord hands me the key, because at this point in my head-movie she’s laughing hysterically, ripping up my lease and kicking me out the door. In reality, she just smiles and shows me to Studio 14.

The tenant before me has left two couches so I sit down and look around. Those four very large and very empty walls look back. I try not to panic. I remind myself that this is what I want: my own painting studio. I beat down the urge to flee.

And then I notice something: how quiet it is. My panic subsides as I realize that I am the only person in the room. No other painters, no teachers, no husband or kids. Just me. My studio.

I can do whatever I want.

My first paintings are acrylics on 60” x 60” canvases. In art class, I oil painted on small canvases, but in my studio something is unleashed. I buy cases of super-sized canvases and big brushes. I buy tubs of the boldest and brightest paints I can find. I fill a spray bottle with water and start to experiment. My acrylics, heavy-duty, full-bodied and lush, become drippy and wild when sprayed with water. I paint, all day, every day. I paint huge flowers and then color fields. I paint from photos and from imagination. I paint people and then abstracts. I paint using only black. While I would love to tell you that every painting is fabulous and they all sell like hot cakes, neither is true. Yet what happens is even better. I start to learn. I begin to really see. I become immersed in what had previously eluded me: the process, the actual problem solving, of painting.

It has been two years since I opened the door to Studio 14. I now paint in a way I never dreamed possible. And as my skills have improved, so have I.

In my studio, my haven, I am now, unabashedly, a painter.

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Haven Winter Blog Series: My Haven

15401066_10154263575531406_2886694505637283739_n
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.

My Haven

Heather Higinbotham

Heather Higinbotham

I’ve always had this dream of having a writing studio, an awesome and relaxing place where I could finally “be a writer.” It swirls around my subconscious like a familiar forgotten home: a cozy couch and fairy lights and teapot and library, a cool old writing desk and typewriter. Floor to ceiling picture windows, the snow whispering secrets outside. I’ve been daydreaming about this a lot lately, as I scramble from one life crisis to the next, scattered and stressed and having not picked up my journal in months.

I could make excuses about why I haven’t been writing, about how I don’t have the right writing spot, or the clutter on my desk hinders my mental clarity, or how life has been “soooo busy…” (eye roll). I could tell myself that someday I will be a real writer, once things settle down and I pay off my debt and start saving for my daughter’s college and can afford to spend my time on things that aren’t income generating.

I could, but I’m too tired of always operating from a place of scarcity. This has been my default for most of my life: never enough time, never enough money, never enough…anything.

This shifted for me a few years ago, when I unexpectedly found myself with an extra hour after an early morning run, before I had to get my daughter and me off to school and work. Something stopped me from my auto-pilot status quo, from doing what I should have—laundry, emails, something productive—and I made myself a cup of tea and sat on my back deck watching the sunrise. That was a luxury as a single mom working full time and attending grad school I could never afford myself.

I have started nearly every morning these past few years with my tea and mental white space. No matter the weather, no matter how early I have to wake up to gift myself this time. I don’t meditate, I don’t think about my to-do list. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I just sit. Almost without fail, by turning my brain off, my poems and words are suddenly clear and bursting to be let out into the world.

I now realize that my haven is not a physical place; it is a conscious choice. My haven is the simple act of breathing. Listening. Venting. Giving myself the space to not make my brain or body work, but to be curious and open about whatever my soul needs in this moment.

My haven is scraps of paper stashed in random places, stranded thoughts I don’t want to lose. I steal time at stoplights and stockpile words in every nook and cranny I can find. It is scribbled chicken scratch half written in dreams. My haven is fleeting at times, but always lingering in my periphery.

Most of all, my haven is learning to be gentle with myself. To know that no matter how crazy life gets, all I have to do is stop, and breathe, and remember that the time and space I need is up to me to choose.

Summoning the Owl

Michelle Roberts

Michelle Roberts

“Call on line two!” Phones still ringing.

“There’s a customer in the warehouse!” our manager announces from the doorway.

“I’m sorry. Could you repeat the credit card number? I couldn’t hear you.” Finger in my left ear.

In my twenties, I wouldn’t have believed that one day I’d be daydreaming about cubicles.

But working in an open office with three other salespeople, phones ringing and everyone talking at once, can make even half walls sound like a luxury.

As it is, two of our four walls don’t quite reach the ceiling, so the caveman intercom is our low-tech paging system.  Some days I don’t realize how noisy it is until my coworker turns off his small desk fan. The constant drone is only obvious in its absence.

A recent study found that two hours of silence led to cell recovery in the memory and emotional center of laboratory mice’s brains. There are days that I leave work needing more cell recovery than others.

Fortunately, my haven is just outside my front door. In our neighborhood, fourteen miles of walking trails wind around lakes bordered by century oaks.

I lace up my shoes with my head still buzzing like the desk fan. Blocks away and headed to Central Lake, my shoulders fall and my lower back loosens. My breath brings me back to my body as my mind clears. Instead of knots in my stomach, I feel the strength in the muscles of my hips and legs. The breeze along the lake is cotton on my skin.

Taking pictures of the same trees and bends in the trail, I capture the fading light at sunset as it glows through the Spanish Moss. No two photos are ever the same and it helps to see the beauty in the changing scenery. Reflecting on the fifteen years since we moved in, I can appreciate the differences in me. This is where I write. Each walk makes space for thoughts to come calling and the inspiration to enter. On especially magical days, the words are fully written by the time I reach my door.

By now it’s darker on the far side of the lake. Dusk is the perfect time to spot an owl, so I summon one. Over the years I’ve shared the trails with raccoons, birds, deer, a stray crawfish and a mother fox with the morning hunt still in her teeth. So often others pass without noticing their company, so I give them a special audience when they appear. These animal totems connect me to nature and the present moment, slowing my pace and my pulse.

Watching the trees, I hear him before I see him and, just as I’m passing, a Great Horned owl swoops across the trail to a branch high in the oaks. I stop. With only his silhouette visible against the sky, his head turns then faces me and I wait. Two runners with headphones speed past. My quiet deficit keeps me there. Soaking up the calm of standing still. When it’s time, in silence he flies across the lake and I continue on. In silence.

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Haven Winter Blog Series: My Haven

IMG_0007Come 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:

I spend so much of my time in community with people who love the written word, inspiring them with guided writing prompts and the pristine wilderness that Montana offers. I love it. I love the bonds they make, I love to actually witness them finding their unique voice, I love hearing their minds stretch and grow, I love the look in their eyes as we hug goodbye, I love hearing these words, “You have no idea how much Haven just changed my life.” 

When I decided to lead writing retreats and workshops, it only made sense to call it Haven. My writing life has always been just that. It’s where I go when I’m scared or curious or proud or in love with life. I go there every day, usually in the morning, with a cup of jasmine green tea, in a small bedroom with coffee-brown walls, a pale-lavender day bed, paintings and prints hung all over the walls, the chest that my father was laid upon when he was born, a few dented file cabinets, a closet filled with unpublished books…and an armoire placed in a bay window which holds my computer, a shelf of first edition books, quotes and photos and museum postcards on the inside of the armoire doors, which I keep open, guts out, just like the way it feels to write. It’s dark and messy in that little room. I like it that way.

But it wasn’t until I started writing in community that I understood how good it feels to be inside-out with other people who are willing to expose themselves too. People who love the written word aren’t really in it to stay in shallow water. They want to take deep dives into dark, cold water and they want to come up with something in their hand that they can use back on shore. And they’re willing to go as far as they can, scrape the rocky bottoms with their knuckles and even their faces, even if they use up every last bit of breath and come up bloodied and gasping for air. But there are cautionary tales to this sort of thing: once you’ve done that a few times, or even once, you’re either a junkie and want more, or you let your better sense take over and you tell yourself that warm shallow waters with soft see-through white-sandy bottoms are much easier. Or maybe you tell yourself that the shore is where you belong. You don’t swim. Not even a toe in. What you once held in your hand wasn’t worth it. Even though it was the best thing you’ve ever held in your hand in all your life. Maybe you stop going to the beach at all.

I’m the other way. I’m a junkie for that knuckle-scraping breathless dive and gasp. I don’t really know who I am without it. I don’t want to know. I haven’t ever let myself think about it. I don’t believe in writer’s block. I don’t know what it is to feel stuck in that way. Other places in my life, you bet. But not there. Even when it feels like it might be the final dive that leaves me swimming up to that light, knowing that there might not be enough breath left to get me back for the gasp, even if it feels like I’m going to drop what’s in my hand and it’s the most rare treasure I’ll ever find…I don’t know how not to live in this way. It is my haven. And I know that it’s not always good for me. At all. Warm shallow waters would be much better for me.

That’s when a gentle voice reminds me: you don’t have to do this alone. You can bring people with you who can help you back to the surface, or support you with oxygen, or tell you when you can dive deeper or when you’ve gone too far. You can have a boat waiting for you at the surface with warm towels and cheers for your bravery and maybe a good lunch. That’s what Haven Writing Retreats and Workshops do for people. And even though I lead it, I still get the chance to do some of the prompts and stretch my mind along with the others in the circle. I get to be with word lovers and wild thinkers and it inspires me to take that deep dive every day.

If you are on the beach watching, I say, come. I have a boat for you. If you are at the bottom of the sea, running out of breath, look up and keep swimming. Reach toward that oar. You don’t have to do this alone. Because even if you’re on the beach, longing to put your toe in, your longing is real. And I promise you: Your longing is worse than running out of breath.

How are you going to find your words, if you aren’t willing to dive for them? You don’t always come up bloody and gasping. Sometimes, it’s a dive of ease, and the sea delivers them to you, shining on a ready rock. But you won’t know if you stay there on the shore, wondering, wanting, longing, waiting.

If words are your haven, I have a place for you. I have treasure for you in Montana. I have people for you. Here are some of their words about their own personal havens, and how they show up for them, whether it’s writing or painting or horses or a place they hold dear. Please enjoy, and take heart: when you’ve longed for too long…it’s time to dive in and see what’s there for you. It might just change your life.

First posts coming your way tomorrow!

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Haven 4:00 a.m. — My Face

Haven (4)

Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2018

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

April 18-22 (full)

May 16-20 (full)

Still space:

September 19-23
September 26-30
October 24-28

I was lying in bed last night at 4:00 a.m. thinking about my face.  I’d woken with a start from a dream inspired by the look I gave myself in the mirror before I went to bed—ghost of Christmas past.  Bruise-like circles along the insides of my eye sockets, puffy pillows underneath them, a little wobble under my chin, new slack in my jaw, random lines on my neck that cross like airplane wake outside of O’Hare, and land in the boggy décolletage that once held up pretty pert, albeit ample, bosom.  I’m not sure where those went.  I only know that when I sit in bed, they rest on my stomach.  And they sweat.  So sometimes I hike my shirt underneath them to cool off.  Nightmare material, for sure.

I lay there letting the beauty tips I never took reel through my mind. “Don’t forget about your decolletage,” I read in some magazine in my twenties.  Hah.  I’ll defy age by welcoming it, I remember thinking.  I’ll be one of those leathery salt-encrusted cranky Yankee long-grey-haired dowagers.  I’ll tout every age spot.  I’ll wear alligator skin like a Gucci purse.  Only I won’t carry a purse.  I’ll just carry a little old backpack from some place cool where I’ve just been on pilgrimage, like Santiago.  Or Honduras.  Or Botswana.

Thoughts from a girl who dabbled in modeling, and dressed intentionally like a bag to be taken seriously in her twenties.

And now it’s all gone to hell.  And I’m not so sure I want to be that leather lady, after all.

“You have to use what you’ve got, girl,” said the make-up artist on Good Morning America as she stabbed me with her mascara wand.  And she tsk-tsked the way the Korean lady at the express nail salon does when she looks at my hands.

I’ve been lucky.  I never really had acne.  I tan easily.  I didn’t really have any wrinkles until I hit fifty.  But even if I did, I truly believe that I wouldn’t see a plastic surgeon unless I was horribly disfigured.  Not that twenty-five years in cold dry Montana has been exceptionally helpful in the skin department.  Even so, I’ve always been more concerned with what’s going on inside of me, rather than on the outside.

But then it was Thanksgiving, and I was in Chicago visiting family, and I happened upon my old lover, Barneys, and the pull to the lower level found me asking an innocent question, “Can you suggest a good face crème?” to a man wearing make-up, sporting an orange silk scarf.  Before I knew it, I was sitting on a stool, obeying his “look up” “look down” like my life depended on it.  His name was Simon.  Of course it was.  He was sort of British, or maybe sort of Peoria-an.  His real name was probably Doug.  But I fell for him.  Hard.  “Dear, what have you been doing to yourself?  You have to take care of your face.  Look up.”  Before I knew it I was fully facially lubed, powdered, eye-lined, mascara-ed and lip-sticked.

“Look how gorgeous,” he said, and I’m pretty sure he meant his make-over artistry, not my actual face, but I went for it.  A girl needs a compliment from a dolled-up guy named Simon every so often.  And they don’t really make ‘em like that in Montana.

“Thank you,” I said, looking in the mirror, feeling like a woman who is just plain trying too hard to defy her age.  But maybe this was the new me.  Maybe I was going to have to start looking like this painted version of myself.  I started to drink the Kool-aid.  “But all I really need is some good lotion.”

He produced a sleek frosty glass tube and a snug little jar and said, “Face oil.  Firming lotion.  I have women buying these in droves.  These products will absolutely change your life.”

“I’ll take them both.”  I didn’t ask how much.  I just knew I needed them like I needed to have a happy Thanksgiving.  And as I signed the credit card slip, I gasped.  “Two hundred and forty dollars?!  What is it made out of?  Gold and bone marrow and stem cells?  And all of Paris?”

“It’s a fabulous product.  And you only use a little dab at a time.”  And then the old line that estheticians and sellers of multi-level-marketing love to use:  “You know…your skin is your largest organ.”  So now I’m going to go into renal failure if I don’t take out a second mortgage for it?  But it was that “medical emergency” which kept me out of the guilt doghouse as I made my way out of the store, down Michigan Avenue, through Thanksgiving, all the way back to my bed-side table, where my little $240 organ-transplant-preventer now lives.

I lay there at 4:00 a.m. this morning, getting real with myself.  A woman of a certain age, especially with the holiday blues, will do just about anything for the Simons of the world.  I mean, do you think that anyone really buys stupidly expensive skin care products because of the organ angle?  I mean, would you spend $240 on a tube of crème from France for your gall bladder?  Of course not.  That’s just what makes people feel good about all those lotions and potions in our medicine cabinet.  I think we all know that it’s not that we care about our biggest organ.  It’s because it’s the only organ you can actually SEE, and it’s the very one that you get judged for, gain power from, use to attract the potential father of your unborn children.  Saggy neck, crows feet, smile lines…  Would you spend $240 on dandelion and milk thistle tinctures that are supposed to help your liver functions?  Maybe if your liver lived on your face you would.  Let’s “face” it—we want to look young.  The world wants us to look young.  But I’m of my mother’s thinking.  Don’t wash your face with soap.  Lubriderm is just fine, thank you very much, but then again, Santa used to bring us toothpaste and dental floss in our Christmas stocking.  She’s a no frills kind of gal.  I always thought I was too.

In any case, each morning and at bed-time, I pump out a few drops of this liquid gold onto my finger tip, and dab, yes dab, it on my face organ.  And then spread a few dabs of the crème over it.  Is my face any more fabulous?  Apparently not, since it’s showing up in nightmares and waking me up at 4:00 a.m. with my heart racing.  But I think of Simon and his silk scarf and plucked eyebrows and perfect face.  He probably exfoliates.  He probably works at Barneys just so he can get a discount on the liquid gold.  And suddenly, I wish I’d bought the exfoliator too.  “Dear, you have to take care of yourself.”

I’m half way through the infusion, and a third of the way through the lotion, which I’m rationing like potable water.

And at 4:00 a.m., with a still-thick oil slick on my face, in the dark of a Montana winter, I can say, with confidence, “Mr. DeMille.  I’m ready for my close up.”  We’ll see how I feel when it runs out…  I have a feeling it’s back to Lubriderm.
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How Do We Move Forward When Life Pushes Us Back

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IMG_0039“I am shedding old patterns and moving forward in my life.”  That has been my mantra during hard times– when I feel powerless and afraid and alone.  It’s a call to action and it works.  But there was a day when I could barely imagine making this claim.  I felt like I was going to lose everything—my kids’ and my stability, in house, finances, and emotional security. I lay in bed, trying to find my mantra.  It felt like a ruse.  How was I going to move forward in my life?  How?

What do I know how to do that can help us stay secure? What do I know how to do, no matter what?  Write.  How have I made it through crisis?  By writing. What is the most powerful tool I know to utilize during hard times:  writing.  Who needs this?  Everybody. Who feels confident in this?  Hardly anyone.

So I put it on Facebook.  “Anybody want to come on a writing retreat with me in Montana?” In two hours, 24 people signed up, and Haven Writing Retreats was born. Did I keep my house?  Yes.  Did my kids maintain their security in home and mother?  Yes.  Do I feel proud…well…yes.  I do.  I feel like life kicked my ass and I kicked back, in the words of my new friend Amy Scher.

IMG_0043 I was recently asked to connect with a Millennial by the Fierce Fifty Revolution group to Bridge the Gap between my generation and theirs. It made me smile. I am a connector, a bridge builder, and have rarely seen age as an obstacle in my life. I certainly don’t now.  I’m a writer and a retreat leader.  I don’t have to deal with image or wrinkles, or techno abilities getting in the way of what I do for a living. The older I get, the better I am at what I do, because I’ve lived through more obstacles, and stretched myself to grow as a result of treading their waters.  Sometimes well. Sometimes not.  So when I was paired with Amy Scher, I was thrilled.  This is a woman who shares the same philosophy.  She takes life’s challenges, and becomes wiser for having lived them.  She turns that wisdom into service to others through her books, online classes and much more.  We got on the phone as strangers and a few hours later, were in a major love fest.  If we’d recorded our conversation, it would have been podcast-worthy.  So we decided to ask each other four powerful questions about our relationship with moving through obstacles—when life almost halted us.  I came up with four which she answered here, and she came up with four that I answered over on her blog. Please enjoy!  There is sure to be something in both of our questions and answers that goes straight to your heart.IMG_0044

Here is her wisdom:  (Head on over to her blog to see my answers to her questions)

Amy’s inspirational story, down-to-earth approach to self-healing, and accessible teaching style has been well received by a variety of audiences including the Department of Psychiatry at Stanford University. She teaches her approach through her How To Heal Yourself online course and speaks at conferences and healing retreats nationwide. Most importantly, Amy lives by her self-created motto: “When life kicks your ass, kick-back.”
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1- What does a meltdown feel like for you when you’re in it? Is there calm in the eye of it, or is it always chaos? Do you think that it’s possible to learn from it while we’re in it? Or only in hindsight?

What does a meltdown feel like to me? Oh boy. Well, I’ve looked in the mirror a time or two and can definitely tell you what it looks like: like a complete mess of snot and mascara. Hmm, I’ve never thought much about what it feels like, but I think it’s comparable to a drunken stupor; where everything that’s going wrong in life suddenly becomes disproportionately magnified and dramatic. And while I’m not a frequent drinker, I can definitely still attest to what that feels like. Ha. Everything is kind of spinning and I know that I’m making this big dramatic scene, even if just in front of myself, yet the part of me that’s keenly aware of it can still do nothing to tame it.

I do think it’s possible to learn from a meltdown while we’re in it, but maybe only as much as to learn that we have to surrender to it in order to survive it. For me, the real learning and growing comes once I’ve moved even just a few inches beyond it and my sanity has started to flow back. But I actually think the meltdown phase is always part of the expanding process. Meltdowns need to happen for new perspective and energy to be born in order to help us move forward. Looking back, the times in my life that I was most emotionally stoic was when I was most stuck.


2- To get unstuck, I often say: “I am shedding old patterns and moving forward in my life.” You are a master at moving forward in yours. How, specifically, have you shed old patterns in thought, heart, and action in your life so that you have become the woman you are today?

I feel like my brain has always gotten me into more messes than out of them. So for me, I’ve needed to dive really deep to clear old ingrained patterns. I usually can’t talk myself into much sense. And I’d been to years of therapy by the time I was an adult, which didn’t seem to be what I needed either. Beginning in my early 20s, I became chronically ill with Lyme disease, which lasted an entire decade. It was the hardest time in my life, but it taught me a lot about myself, including how I was holding onto so much emotional baggage. Letting go of the old turned out to be the key to my physical healing. What worked for me was accessing my emotions and releasing them through energy work. First, I discovered and used Emotional Freedom Technique (EFT), which was a big shifter for me. Over time, I also created some of my own techniques. One of my favorites is called The Sweep, which is basically a script that you repeat to “sweep” away old beliefs from the subconscious mind (examples: “I’m not good enough” and “nothing ever works out for me”). I even wrote a book on my approach, which includes everything I did to heal myself when nothing else worked. (link here)
3- How do you know you have moved forward in your life? Can you walk us through what it looks like to be in a healthy, functioning place in your life?

I know I’ve moved forward because I’m nicer to myself. I sometimes eat too much pizza and lose complete zen-like perspective. And I’m fine with that. I’m more myself than I ever allowed myself to be, and for me, that’s the ultimate sweet spot in life. There is an ease that comes with finally giving up the pattern of fighting with yourself. I mean, I’m a Virgo, so I’ll always probably lean toward unrealistic perfectionist tendencies (like keeping a very orderly house and writing impeccable first drafts of my books). But becoming the true me was the crux of my healing. Still now, having been completely health for almost ten years, I try my best just to stay out of my own way and let myself live freely.

4- How would you define “okay?” Eating, exercising, a calm mind? Or is “okay” an illusion? In other words, is the Meltdown always with us, teaching us (or maybe haunting us), or are we every truly liberated from it?

My favorite quote is Pema Chödrön’s, “None of us is okay and all of us are fine.” This says it all for me. I think being okay means accepting that sometimes we’re just not okay. Not at all. But that it’s all fine anyway. Trying to manage every aspect and emotion of our lives is what gets us in trouble. Every hard time in life or meltdown is just a season that will pass. Except for when we hold on so tight to the emotions and expectations that it can’t go anywhere. That’s when we know that there’s more work to do to get to the “okay.” It’s not always easy, but it’s always worth it.

BIO: Amy B. Scher is an L.A-based author, energy therapist, and leading voice in mind-body healing.
Amy uses energy therapy techniques to help those experiencing emotional or physical challenges to heal permanently and completely. After years of struggling from a life-threatening illness herself, she discovered answers to the important question: Why do some people heal from emotional and physical issues, while others don’t? After healing herself when no one else could, Amy is now an internationally sought-after practitioner helping others turn inward for healing.

She has been featured in major publications including CNN, The Huffington Post, Curve magazine, Elephant Journal, OM Times, Cosmopolitan magazine, Psych Central, the San Francisco Book Review, and was named one of Advocate’s “40 Under 40″ for 2013.

Amy’s most recent book, How To Heal Yourself When No One Else Can (Llewellyn Worldwide January 2016), is a step-by-step total approach to mind, body and spirit healing. Her work has also been featured in Elizabeth Gilbert’s anthology, Eat Pray Love Made Me Do It (Riverhead Books March 29, 2016). To learn more about Amy, go to Amy Scher.  To read her book go here!

 

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When Doing Our Best Feels Like Failure…

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For those of you who feel like your best falls short sometimes…here’s some permission to GIVE YOURSELF A BREAK!  (special permission for mothers of college bound seniors, in the throes of athletic recruitment!)

“Mom.  I’ve decided that I want to play baseball in college.  It’s my dream.”

This came out of my rising senior son’s mouth, early this summer, after his first few games with his new Legion baseball team.  This was not the plan.

I am a planner ahead-er.  Especially when it comes to my children.  So throughout my son’s high school career, I’ve gently teased out ideas of what college might look like for him.  What his dream would be.  The long and short of it was this:  A big school with great sports teams, near a city, with a lot of diversity and opportunity, and a strong Business School.  We knew he wasn’t D1 baseball material, and so playing ball at a large university wasn’t really on the map, even though I know how much he’s loved the game, all the way back to T-ball, buck teeth, and a scrappy little mop of blonde hair.

It was time for him to spread his wings and see what else there was out there to love.  Plus, he’s been raised in a small mountain community in NW Montana, unlike the Chicago of my youth, and the New York city of his father’s.  We were excited for him to start playing the field of life, not just the field of and around the baseball diamond.

“Just think—you’ll have a regular spring, for once.  You’ll have extra time to be able to expand academically into new terrain, and enjoy what college life has to offer.”  He seemed copacetic.  Relieved almost.  And frankly, it was a relief for me too– I’ve logged a lot of hours on those baseball bleachers, and he’s logged a lot of hours on that diamond and in those dug-outs.  It would be a good step for us all.  Because how could I pass up being in those bleachers as much as possible, even if it meant a long road trip.  Heck, in Montana, we’re used to those—all for the love of ball.  I was privately happy to put it in the rearview mirror.13325635_10153431308556266_4887280178150671123_n

And then that day in June…  “Mom, I love this sport.  I love the kids who play this sport.  I’m good at it.  I want to play in college.  I don’t care if I don’t have as much of a social life.  My team will be my social life.  I don’t care if it’s not some big university near a city.  I’ll play D3.  I just want to play baseball.”  Out of the mouths of not-so-babes.

I’m a mother.  Far be it from me to stand in the way of my child’s dreams.  And what he said was all true.  He’s a talented leftie pitcher, and a great first-baseman, and a spirited team member.  He never ever complains about any of it.  He takes it as the Hero’s Journey that baseball is:  The call to leave home, go out in the world, and come back, more the wise, despite some scrapes and losses along the way.  As of this June, he just wants “to play baseball.”  I remembered a seventeen-year old girl who just wanted “to be an artist.”  So I Googled D3 baseball colleges:  Small.  Liberal Arts.  No Business major.  Mostly rural.  And very…very expensive.  Plus, they don’t offer athletic scholarships.  Huh.

I quickly learned that on top of it all, the kids who get recruited for D3 sports, have been going to recruitment camps for years.  They’re on the coaches’ radars.  They know all about scholarships and are in touch with Financial Aid departments.  They have their lists in place and have toured campuses.  They’ve met with Admissions people.  Just when, I’m not sure.  Surely not in the summer.  They’re the Boys of Summer– they’re playing baseball every second of every day—eighty-eight games!  And if they play other sports, not then either.  AND, the cherry on top of the top:  it all has to be done Early Decision or Early Action…by…drum roll:  November 1st!  That’s in a matter of months!  And the cherry atop the cherry on top:  my son is the quarterback of the football team.  Just when are we supposed to visit campuses?  If he misses a practice, he misses the Friday game.  How does one fly from Montana to Pennsylvania, and upstate New York, and Ohio, and Minnesota, and Oregon, have a proper visit during the school week, and make everybody happy?  Never mind pay for it all?

We were late to the party.  Very late.

This is not my style.  Usually…I’m throwing the dang party.  How could this have happened?  How could I not have at least seen the potential of this coming our way and had a back-up plan in place?  How could I make my son proud, and make it through this without guilt, shame, the feeling of less-than, the feeling of failing him?  I hadn’t been able to save the marriage from ending, or keep his father from moving thousands of miles away, or his friends from moving, or his sister from taking an internship far from home this summer.  I hadn’t been able to provide a house full of action and fun like it used to be.  In fact, in the last five years, I’ve been working all the time.  Leaving him home alone.  Leaving him to cook his meals and fend for himself– the opposite of what I would ever have opted for as the mother to my son.  I was not going to fail him this time.  No way.

And so it began.  The baptism-by-fire SAT sign up and tutoring, the college essay boot camp, the virtual college advisor meetings, the recruitment videos and the camps in Long Island and Oregon, the Common Application.  I’ll save you the stress of it all, and me the blood-pressure spike, but suffice it to say that on top of my full-time job leading writing retreats in Montana, and a book deadline for a novel I’ve been working on for a few years, as a single mother, I was now scrambling to put together a schedule that would be do-able.  For all of us.  Not perfect.  But possible.  And all before November 1st.  Deep breath. 13450882_10153462757811266_6947302589785351012_n

But the breathing is shallow at best.

I am smack dab in the throes of it right now.  And here’s what I’ve learned:  You can’t be perfect.  Even with the best of intentions, as a mother…you’re just going to fall short sometimes.  Even with your heart and soul and mind as sharp and on it as possible, there are times as a mother of a college-bound child when you are going to look around and say, How did I get here?  I didn’t mean for this to happen.  I was trying so hard.  I was doing my best.  And my best…well, it just isn’t good enough.  And you’ll look around at the other mothers, and somehow, they are at the party that you didn’t even know existed.  They are seasoned party-goers, with gracious hostess gifts, and the perfect, in this case, little red-white-and-blue jersey, and ball cap, with the proverbial stadium seat sporting their son’s soon-to-be alma mater’s mascot.

And you’ll feel small, or wrong, or just plain bad.  And you’ll find yourself crying in bed in the early hours, or lying in the dark with heart palpitations, and the feeling of true hopelessness, desperation even.  You were the one that dropped him off on his first day at Montessori with a backpack full of black-eyed Susans for his teacher, with a loving note.  You were the one who lay in bed with him every night reading him Ferdinand, and Mike Mulligan, and Dr. Seuss, who sang him Lullaby, and played This Little Piggy, and taught him how to make homemade ice cream.  You were the one who drove over mountain passes for any number of baseball and football games—and that one time when he missed the bus, and you drove six hours to drop him off at camp, and turned around and drove six hours back.  You were that mother, yes you were.  You promised him you’d give him the very best of you.  And here you are failing him in his, to date, biggest opportunity, his biggest dream.  Because…what if he doesn’t get that scholarship money, and what if you can’t swing it to get him to more than three of those schools so he doesn’t even know where he wants to apply early, and what if what if what if…well, what if his “dream” doesn’t come true?

I know the answer.  He’ll be okay.  We will all be okay.  First world problems.  But still…this is one of the last things we can do for our kids—shepherd them into their next chapter, and the first one far from home.  We’ll see what happens in November.  We’ll see if he’ll get that golden ticket, and he’ll open that letter and smile, and nod, and fold into my arms in happiness and relief.  We’ll see if we get that moment of, “We did this.  This dream is going to come true!”  But even if we don’t, I have to believe that regrets are never really teaching tools.  We will always fall short somehow.  We’re mothers.  There is no A+.  There is only the very best we can do.  Even if we are late to the party.  Especially…if we are late to the party.  Because here’s the bottom line:  There is no party.  It’s really, in the end, just the Hero’s Journey, after all.

If you would like to take a break in 2017 and live the writer’s life in the woods of Montana, find community, find your voice, and maybe even find yourself…check out this video and info, and email the Haven Writing Retreat Team asap to set up a phone call! Laura@lauramunsonauthor.com

Now Booking 2018 Haven Writing Retreats!

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May 16-20
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http://www.lauramunsonauthor.com/retreats/

(previously published in Grown and Flown)

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What If You Stopped Giving?

 

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If you read me…you’re going to have to sit a spell.  Pour a cup of something and pause.  I refuse to go into sound bytes…  With love, here is what I share with you today:

Somebody asked me the other day if I know how to receive without giving.

Huh.  I’d never really thought about that before.

I proceeded to tell her how I’ve been trying to receive the beauty of Montana this summer, as a writer and seeker and feeler– just being, rather than always running to the next thing.  Just being in my creativity before my writing retreat season begins in a few weeks.  And then I started to tell her about the book I’m writing and how I think it will help a lot of people and and and–

She cut me off.  “You were talking about receiving.  Then you switched gears.  And now you’re talking about giving.  I asked you if you can receive…without giving.”

Ok, fine.  She might have been a therapist I recently hired to help me get out of a period of life overwhelm with a kid in the throes of college recruitment, and wearing just too many damn hats in general.

I had no plain answer to offer her.  “It’s not like I think of myself as some sort of Florence Nightingale or anything.  I’m a gal who likes to take long baths and long walks and ride my horse.  I try to grab moments for myself as much as my life will allow.  And what’s wrong with a symbiosis of giving and receiving, anyway?”

She cut me off again.  “What do you do now that is just about receiving?  Especially from people?”

I thought about it.  “Well, I love what I do for a living.  I love what it feels like to help people fall in love with their words, their voice, their self-expression, Montana.  When I see those lights go on and their faces soften and open to their truth…it’s the greatest gift I’ve known.”

Her face was deadpan and now with a dash of severity.  “I’m talking about receiving from people without giving.  Do you have an example of that in your current life?”

I scrolled through my daily life for the purely receiving peopled moments.  I couldn’t think of any—not any I was exceptionally proud of.

“I have a great chiropractor,” I said.

“People you don’t pay,” she said.

“Well I have a lot of good friends,” I said.  “A couple of them did nothing but listen to me when I was going through a rough patch a few years ago.”

“What about now?  Now that you’ve gotten into the business of being of service.”

92631D5A-0404-471D-89A2-F4BD8D260510“Uh…”  I thought of all the remarkable people in my life.  And I thought about how when they give to me, I almost always feel the immediate compulsion to give back.  Or feel guilty for not giving back.  “Just plain ol’ receiving, huh.  Did I say I take a lot of long baths?”  I paused.  ”But I mean, the truth is, even when I take a bath, I feel a little guilty about it.  Like I’m stealing the moment from something or someone.  Guilty pleasure, I guess.”

She stared at me, holding her pen to her paper.

“I wasn’t brought up to feel pleasure.  I was raised by World War II people.  My mother’s famous line is:  What do you think I do all day—sit around and eat bon bons???!!!  We are not bon bon people.”

She stared at me.

Oh God—was I paying someone $150 to have them tell me I have to eat bon bons?  I cut her to the chase, “I eat chocolate, you know.  I enjoy good wine.  I love to go out for dinner.  I took my kids to Europe for Christmas last year.  It’s not like I’m some kind of a deprivation-ist.  It’s not like I get off on penury!”

She said, “Is receiving always about pleasure?  What if it was about support?

Huh.  Time was up.  Thankfully.

So I went for both—pleasure and support:  I went out for lunch with a friend who gives the best advice, who eats cheeseburgers and fries like they’re an entire food group, and who prides herself on day-drinking.  I once told her that her porn star name would be Guilt-less Pleasure.

We sat in a dark pub on a sunny day.  “Do you think it’s possible for you to receive without giving?” I asked her. 92631D5A-0404-471D-89A2-F4BD8D260510

She didn’t skip a beat, dipping her French fry into a ketchup puddle, her gel-polished nails shining with the same color.  “Of course.  I love receiving gifts.  I don’t just have a birthday week, I have a birthday month!”  She guzzled her beer.

“A birthday month, huh,” I said, doing the same, pretending I like beer.

“Oh come on.  You know how to have fun.  You had a kick ass 30th, and 40th, and 50th birthday party.  I was at all of them.  I’ll never forget that lobster you flew in from Maine.  Or that marimba band you hired in your back yard.  And that Christmas party you used to throw.  Straight up Dickens.  With the lumineria all the way up the hill?  Magic.”

I thought about it.  “I do like to throw a good party.  But this therapist I’m seeing would tell me that I’m doing it for my guests as much as I am for me.  I don’t know how to throw a party for just me, I guess.  Doesn’t sound like much fun, frankly.”  Then I added, because I didn’t want to be pathetic, “I take a lot of baths, you know.”

She gave me the same deadpan look, but this time it was for free.  Bonus!

“What’s wrong with me these days?” I said, staring at my cheeseburger.  “Once upon a time, some would say that I was a hella good hedonist.”

She’s one of those friends who takes a question like that seriously.  This time she pointed at me with her bloody French fry and her bloody fingernail.  “You’re terrified of being called selfish.  Aren’t you.”

Shit.  The Call of the Bluff.

I stared at my hamburger, suddenly un-hungry.

She moved into her cheeseburger with vigor.  “I bet someone called you selfish when you were a little girl, and you’ve been running from it ever since.  That’s what I think.”  Juice ran down her chin, and she wiped it and licked her finger.  “But what do I know.  I’m not a therapist.  I’m just a single mother.”  She winked at me.

I didn’t wink back.  “I know I know.  Selfishness is out.  Self-preservation is in.  Self-care is an industry.  That’s why I finally hired a therapist.  I need to figure out this Self-care thing.”

“I think she’s on the right track.  I dare you to spend a week asking for help.  Without giving a thing back to the people you ask.”  The final French fry: “And not feeling guilty about it.”

The waiter came.  “Can I get a To Go box?” I said.

So I spent the week not asking anyone for help.  And feeling guilty about it.  And even worse about how sorry I felt for myself that no one offered me help on their own.  And how lame I feel with this new awareness that I don’t ask for it.  And so instead, I hired a Self-care coach, just to practice.  And then I felt pathetic for having a Self-care coach, and a therapist, when I’ve been such a glutton for the fact that I haven’t had a therapist for ten years.  I’m so “evolved.”  I can do life so “alone.”  I “help” people for a living.  I am of “service.”  I take a lot of baths.

Shit.

92631D5A-0404-471D-89A2-F4BD8D260510Okay, so as it goes when you are wandering around with a blender head full of new awareness and longing and confusion…my car broke down in a parking lot.  Dead battery.  As I was coming out of a consultation, feeling very wonderful about helping someone construct their book project.  Turned the key.  Nuthin’.  Turned it again.  Shit.  And me without my jumper cables.

I got out of my car and asked a few people if they could give me a jump, feeling very not wonderful about bothering them in the middle of their day.  Neither of them had jumper cables.  So I called Triple A.  Tipped the guy $20, I felt so grateful.  This receiving without giving thing wasn’t going so well.

And then today happened.

I drove the Going-to-the-Sun road through Glacier National Park to take a hike up at Logan Pass.  I decided that it’s easier to receive from nature, and what better place to receive than this glorious part of the world—this definition of mountain majesty.  The wildflowers were out in profusion—the rose and blue gentian, the lavender aster, the spiking fuchsia fireweed.  The sky was blue, the clouds plump, the air pristine, the subalpine fir scenting it all with a heady elegance.  Receive receive receive.

Human being walking by with nice smile.

Me, taking shameless selfie.

“Would you like me to take a picture of you standing on that rock?  You look so happy!”

“Absolutely!  Thank you!”

Click.

I started to ask if she’d like a photo of herself in return.  But I stopped myself.

If she wants one, she’ll ask.  Selfish of me?  Nah. 

I decided to lie down on the rock and just be– feel the sun baking me into the earth.  So far so good.  Nature, humans, all abundant.  Receive receive receive.  And this feeling of great wholeness overtook me.  Was it pleasure I was feeling?  Maybe not.  It was more like support, like the therapist said.  This rock, this warm rock on this mountain top, held me.  I had everything I needed in that moment—warmth, water, space, time.  People around if I needed help.  Beauty resplendent in 360.  Receive receive receive.IMG_7506

And I thought, I feel relief right now.  I feel detonated.  Deactivated.  Benign.  Neutral.  I need to lie on more rocks in a place that is neutral.  Yes, neutral is what I’ll go for.  Not accelerate.  Not brake.  Not give.  And maybe not receive.  Just find this place of neutral at least once a day.  Maybe when I wake.  Or when I feel spent.  If there’s something to receive, it’s this.  This is the gift.  I’ve been trying too hard.  Maybe receiving happens when we stop giving.

So, wouldn’t you know…when I got back to my car, in this mountain-top parking lot, my battery was dead again.  And I’d forgotten my jumper cables again.  In my defense, I’m loaning out my sturdy Suburban with all the bells and whistles to my son, and am driving the “kid car,” and apparently haven’t learned one thing about life in Montana after twenty-five years.

The day was waning.  It wasn’t quite an emergency, but I knew that I would absolutely have to go Blanche DuBois, whether I liked it or not.  So with the dependence on the kindness of strangers bannered across my forehead, I bothered car after car, asking for a jump.  All tourists.  No luck.  The Visitor’s Center didn’t have cables either.  “I promise you, someone out there will give you a jump.  You just have to ask,” the ranger told me.

Shit.

Processed with VSCO with f2 presetI liked neutral much better than ye olde ask and…

So I went back into the parking lot, hating to bug all of those nice travelers, fresh off their mountain high, to dig into their trunks, and my engine.

I asked two guys fitting fishing poles into backpacks.  “Hey, do you have jumper cables?”

They looked at each other.  “Yeah.  But we can’t give you a jump or we’ll lose our parking place.”

My hamburger friend’s line blared at me with bloody shiny fingertips:  God, I’m so selfish for forgetting my jumper cables.  God, I’m so selfish for not getting my battery looked at.  God, I’m so selfish for working so hard that I don’t have my priorities straight.  God, I’m so selfish for taking the day off to play in the mountains and lie on rocks and be in neutral when I have a list a mile long of things that need to get done for my kids, and my career, and my house, and duh—my car.  I’m so selfish.

And frankly, I don’t know how it happened.  But apparently God responds to self-loathing mind rants.  Because suddenly, there was a gang of smiley people all gathered around me, with a petite woman with long black hair taking charge like we were on Survivor.  She pointed at people and things and my car and me, and I took her orders.

“Get in your car,” she said.  “Put it in neutral.”

Yep.  Neutral.

IMG_7502And four strapping men stood at my hood and one of them shouted, “Push!”

Another strapping guy was at my window saying, “Crank the wheel,” and I said, “which way?” and he reached in and grabbed the steering wheel and cranked it for me.  “Now brake,” he said.  And I braked.

“Pop the hood,” another one said.

“Uh…this is my daughter’s car.  Not sure I…” like I’d never driven a car in my life, and never dealt with one crisis moment in my life, and believe me…normally I am the woman with the long black hair.  Two weeks ago I was galloping through a Montana meadow while a horse bled out, to get help.  (The horse is fine.)

But I was just…frozen with all this help.

And this guy reached in to my car and pulled a lever and the hood popped, and there was a truck, a bright blue truck, hood to hood with my car, and people were “operating” on my engine, and I was just out-of-body, cable to cable, charge to charge, until one of them shouted, “Turn your key.”  And I obeyed.

The car started.  Everybody clapped.  Surgery successful.  The girl with the black hair hollered, “God Bless America!”

I wanted to jump out of my car and hug them all and ask them where they were from and offer them local’s advice about where to go in Glacier, and in the Flathead Valley, and to take down their names and send them thank you notes, and heck, invite them all over for dinner.  But I didn’t.  I just said, “Thank you.  May someone do something nice for you today.”

And I drove off.

And yeah…I felt a little stupid.  But more than that, I felt supported.  And what I didn’t feel…was selfish.  Not in the least.

And when I came home and told my story to my hamburger friend, she said, “Has the Universe ever not supported you, Laura?”

And as much as I wanted to say, There have been times when it hasn’t…the truth is that no.  Never.  I’ve always had support.

I just have to live in a way that lets me find it.  And that might mean that I have to ask.  But mostly, that means that I have to receive the support that is all around me.

If you would like to take a break this fall and live the writer’s life in the woods of Montana, find community, find your voice, and maybe even find yourself…check out this video and info, and email the Haven Writing Retreat Team asap to set up a phone call!

September 6-10 (FULL)
September 20-24 (FULL)
October 4-8 (FULL)
October 18-22 (one spot left)

February 21-25 (now booking)

The rest of the 2018 schedule to be announced…

Follow me on Facebook for more news, community, and inspiration!  

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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 Holiday Giveaway

Giveaway Basket-December 2013

Announcing the winner of the Haven Holiday Giveaway!

I have never experienced more personal gratification in putting together a basket of love, spirit, and much good work– all from people who have touched my life.  Each of these people had an idea.  A far-fetched idea, some might say.  None of them let that get in their way.  What you see here is not just a bevy of incredible products, but hours of heart language, and miles of creative flow.  I want to thank all the  contributors.  Check out their information below and spend some time seeing what they do.  Maybe you have a “far-fetched” idea.  Maybe you long to bring it into reality.  These people hold the torch and say, “welcome.” 

Happy Holidays from Haven.  May you find haven during this magical time of the year. 

yrs. Laura

This gorgeous Giveaway basket includes:

A priceless collection of some of my very favorite things…to keep your heart hearth warm through the holidays and beyond…including a 10% discount on a Montana Haven Retreat in 2014!  Sign up here and win!

Welcome to some of the things I love!  I own all of these gorgeous creations and incorporate them into my life as often as I can.  They help me to focus, feel balanced, stay mindful, intentional, and grounded.  And they also feed my muse.  Each of these very special products has been birthed by powerful people who have come into my life and deeply inspired me.  I invite you to check out their web-sites and consider their creations in your holiday gift-giving.  And I encourage you to dig deep into your creative self-expression and follow your own passion wherever it leads you!

Giveaway Gift Basket:

A signed first edition hardback of my New York Times and international best-selling memoir:  This Is Not The Story You Think It Is:  A Season of Unlikely Happiness

2014 Montana Haven Retreat (selling out fast)!!!  10% off a retreat experience that will inspire your creative self-expression, nourish you, and re-charge your muse.

Great Northern Powder Guides:  10% off the cat ski adventure of your life in the stunning back-country of NW Montana.  A truly powerful Montana Moment!

Jessica Ricci Jewelry:  Silver Temet Nosce ring (Know Thyself)

BijaBody: BijaBody Nightly Beauty Tea, Deluxe Discovery Set with a sample of BijaBody’s protective Daily Body Serum and regenerative Anti-Aging Body Treatment, in a gorgeous, hand-make canvas bag

Clovis Jewelry:   Gold-filled Horseshoe Necklace

Glacier County Honey:  Two Montana-made large pine cone beeswax candles

Jennifer Schelter Yoga:  Inspirational Vinyasa Yoga DVD from one of the country’s best yogis.

JAMU Spa Products:  Ginger Spice Spa At Home (organic ginger massage and body oils and Balinese ‘boreh’ body scrub)

The Zen of Slow Cooking:  Organic whole and ground spice blends crafted for your slow cooker and designed to infuse a little zen into your kitchen.  Shopping list, recipe & zen reflection included.

And the randomly selected winner of the Haven Holiday Giveaway is: 

Heather Higinbotham who blogs at: http://justbegooddogood.blogspot.com/ and does wonderful work for Montana here!

Thanks to all of you who entered.  There are more giveaways to come in 2014 with more of my favorite things!

 

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