Tag Archives: writing

Haven Spring Blog Series – Part 6

Haven Spring Blog Series

A note from Laura:

Thank you to all of the brave Haven Writing Retreat alums who have shared their heart language here in these past weeks!  I hope that their stories of using writing as living have inspired you to do the same!  The best way I know for you to find your own heart language…is for you to come to Montana and experience the gift that they gave themselves!  Please enjoy our last Haven Spring Blog Series post which shows that ultimately it is up to ourselves to take a stand for our creative self-expression.  If you would like more information about how to find your voice, in the way that these writers did, there are links and testimonials at the end of this lovely piece.  I’m now booking for my September retreats!  Thank you for following along in our blog series. 

Yours,

Laura

Katherine Cox Stevenson - My Secret Writing Cabin

Pulling over, I glanced in the rear-view mirror to make sure my husband hadn’t followed me, another new activity. I managed to get out of the house with my regular, “Off to run errands. See you later.” This was met with silence or, “Who cares,” or, “Ok honey. Have a nice time.” My husband’s behavior changed like flipping on a switch. I walked on egg shells for years as he experienced cognitive decline. He had no insight. In the early days, I tried talking to him about changes, and his response was always, “You are making this all up because you are an RN and have some kind of ulterior motive.” We were talking major changes like when he grabbed me as I came into the bedroom. Eyes flashing, jaw set, urgent whisper, “Look!?! A severed leg!!” It was clothes on the bed.

I lied to my husband. I wasn’t heading out to run errands, instead escaping to my tiny secretly-rented writing cabin, a gift to me three or four afternoons a week. Writing in journals has been part of my life since childhood, on and off. Mostly off as I immersed myself in endless education. However, as soon as my husband’s illness started, I turned to writing words on pages. I am confident writing saved my life all those years. Without it, my name would have been added to the all-too-common statistic of care-givers dying first.

My husband rarely went out and did nothing except sleep, read, and stick to me like glue when he wasn’t giving me the silent treatment. A total personality and behavioral change from the man I married just nine years prior. I wrote in my home office but felt like a caged animal and one afternoon called a realtor from my car.

“I need to find a private place to write. Do you know of anyone who has space for rent?”

Within two hours, I held shiny keys for a furnished writing cabin in the woods. Nestled away, not visible from the road, full of peace, calm, and safety. None of which existed at home. I kept the cabin a secret and no one was ever there with me. Why? Because I needed something just for me. Writing in that cabin was literally an act of living when everything around me was disintegrating – my husband’s brain, our marriage, friends gone, no one believing me.

Haven SubmissionNot seeing my husband behind me, I pulled into the gravel driveway. Climbing two stairs, a “welcome” mat at the door. Welcome to this writing sanctuary where I lost myself in words, in creativity. Writing was a guide to try and make sense of the hellish life I lived. Putting pen to paper and/or fingers to the key board, I explored, found answers, vented, kept records, and managed to keep sane. Everything of my life outside that cabin was insane.

That February afternoon, the sun shone brightly in the one room kitchenette and living area. The soft cream colors of the walls and furnishings were refreshing in my otherwise way over stimulated life. Dropping my computer case on the chair, I opened the glass door to enjoy the large fir and cedar trees and was delighted to see numerous song birds at my recent gifts of seed and suet.

The air was fresh and after returning inside, I made tea and arranged writing materials. Lovely bound journals, colorful pens, and lap top on my beloved small wood writing desk under a large window. As soon as I sat, tears streamed followed soon by chest heaving sobs. At my writing cabin, pent up grief spouted out like winter rain mountain runoffs.

Once that energy was expended, I lit a candle and always started with what I labeled, “Daily log” – detailed notes on my husband’s condition, “Last evening he threw my suitcase over the fence.” Then it was my time for writing – a memoir, my journal, and trusting the process of what wanted to make its way to the page. Time flew and soon I needed to leave. Couldn’t I just stay there? Please?

Our tiny island is so small the drive home took about eight minutes. Girding my loins, as was my new normal, I walked into our little blue house overlooking the Salish Sea. My husband didn’t look up from reading. I slowly approached the couch offering greetings. He raised his head and there was the familiar look of disdain, “Where the hell do you go during afternoons!?”

Thank you, Katherine.  I’m so glad you found your own personal haven in that little cottage.  

For those of you who would like to find your haven…come to Montana and see why Haven Writing Retreats and Workshops is ranked in the best writing programs  in the US by The Writer magazine, and by Open Road media…and has changed over 700 people’s lives…

You don’t have to be a writer to come to Haven.  Just a seeker who loves the written word, and who finally wants to find your unique voice!
*special spring discounts…
June 12-16 (one more spot)
June 26-30 (one more spot)
Now booking the September Haven Writing Retreats–  A gorgeous time to be in Montana!)
September 18-22
September 25-29
With love,
Laura and the Haven Alums

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

Haven Writing Retreat alums!

Laura’s gifts are many. She has a way of pulling the story from the writer. She begins with a warming of the hive and by the end of Haven, she has drawn each person’s sweet honey out for all to taste! All good things come to those who wait. It took me years of watching Laura’s Haven retreats from a distance to get to a yes for myself. Thank God I got to a yes!  This was by far the best money I have ever spent on a workshop for my career and I’m deeply grateful. The writing instruction was epic and I left with a renewed love for the craft of writing. The thing that surprised me was the high level of skill Laura has as a facilitator for both the individual and the group. I have been facilitating groups for years and it is something that takes often hard earned skill, insight, passion and a touch of magic. Laura has an abundance of each and made a full-day, learning- packed workshop truly feel like a retreat! Brava Laura! 10,000 Thank you’s for sending me home better at everything I do, especially writing!
I can’t wait to come back for Haven II!”
–Kathleen, San Luis Obispo, CA  (Occupational Therapist)

If you are reading this testimonial, you were like I was: desperately searching for evidence that I should or shouldn’t go, trying to decide if I was or wasn’t a writer. If you are that person in that place, I would like to speak directly to you: go to Haven. If you have found Haven, if you have found this page, life is giving you a gift.  It is up to you to take it. Haven changed my life and my writing in all of the ways it needed to change. Laura is brilliant in a way that is difficult to put into words, but she has a superpower: she helps you shed all of the writers that you are not, and helps you leap into the beautiful writer that you are. If you aren’t sure of your voice, Laura will help you find it, and BELIEVE in it. She’s the writing fairy-godmother that I always wanted and now have. Get there. Jump the hurdles, bypass the doubt, walk through the fear, and get there.”
— Amy, Missoula, MT (Singer-songwriter)

This is the power of Haven: For one year, I hadn’t written a word. Not a one. I was stuck in a place in my manuscript, couldn’t figure my way out, and signed up for Haven in a last ditch effort to find the problem before I threw out the whole thingBut on Day 3 of Haven, after working one on one with Laura, I went out into the Montana wilderness with my computer and typed out 600 new words that unlocked the problem in my book. I’ve been back home for four days now, and am 10,000 words into a new draft with no sign of slowing down.” 

– Brooke, Vancouver, BC  (Speaker. Writer. Coach. Chef.)

 

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Haven Spring Blog Series – Part 5

Haven Spring Blog Series

Colleen Brennan - December, Hill City, Idaho

I am kicking at chunks of snow outside an abandoned saloon/store on Hwy. 20 in Hill City, Idaho. With peeling paint and boarded-up windows, the building offers the empty promise of beer and wine, restrooms, local honey, and gifts. A truck sits dormant behind the saloon, enshrined in a foot of crusty snow that dazzles so brightly it hurts my eyes.

I stare at the sun and when I look away, my sunglass-covered eyes picture large pee-colored circles everywhere I gaze. Judging by the burning sensation in my nostrils, I figure the temperature must be in the single digits. It hurts to breathe.

But I can’t get back in my car. Not yet. My heart is still beating too rapidly and even though it may be only 8 degrees outside, I’m sweating on the inside.

I live in southwest Idaho, and I’m driving to the east side of the state to stay for a few days with a man I began to love eight months ago.

My 1999 Camry has kept me safe, for as many years, on dozens of solo road trips (including one to Whitefish, Montana, that changed my life). I have been forced to the side of the road just now, not by an angry trucker or a herd of migrating elk but by the feeling that I would start hyperventilating if I didn’t stop and pay attention to my accelerating pulse, sweaty lower back, and muddled thinking. As I spritz my tongue with Rescue Remedy, I try to imagine a soft periwinkle light radiating warmth and enveloping me in calmness.

What’s going to happen to me now, at this point in my life, if I can’t even drive for four hours alone without feeling like I’m going to die?

When I told my dad about the panic attacks that set in just before my birthday, he said, “Next time, call me. I’ll talk you down.”

I would, if I could, call him right now. But I have no cell reception out here in the shadow of the Soldier Mountains, and Hill City – much less a city than an empty roadside saloon – offers no wifi either.

The shadows of the saloon cast a blue-gray light that stretches out like a yawn along the frozen ground. What’s left of the paint on the building is a sickly yellow jaundice, the color of my insides.

Wide tire tracks leave a herringbone pattern at my feet. I’d like to knit this pattern into a sweater, so I take a photo with my phone. Two different tire tracks intersect, forming a V. The track on the left resembles a diagonal line of seagulls, wings held frozen on the up-stroke. The track on the right mimics sandpiper feet, minus one toe.

Hill City_ColleenBrennanThe word integument comes to mind, and I try to write it in a notebook I carry in the little compartment between the front seats of my car. I’ve discovered that it helps to write things down when I find myself in the midst of what feels like a complete break with reality. Language is my savior; writing, my guide.

The cold air is preventing the ink in my pen from transferring to the paper in my notebook, so I climb into the back seat of my car and begin to wonder, in writing, why the word integument has popped up in my addled brain. It’s a covering, isn’t it? A layer that shields a vulnerable organ. Like feathers protecting bird wings.

Is that what anxiety is? The envelope that protects a person from getting hurt?

I’m thinking, I still have the Craters of the Moon to drive through, the vast lava rock fields surrounding the black asphalt on the eastern section of Hwy. 20. The blackness makes it tough to navigate after sundown, even without an out-of-whack limbic system.

But, for now, I don’t think about the dark stretch of road ahead of me. Instead, I follow the movement of pen over paper and marvel at the healing, protective power it provides.

Christine Lazorishak - Just Another Year

I needed 2018 to be a good year, but my intuition told me something bad was going to happen.    At 2 a.m. on New Year’s Day, I woke drenched in sweat with my heart hammering. A tingling sensation started in my left arm and trickled down my leg.  Numbness spread up my face, as if injected with novocaine. The odd sensations swept up and down, while my brain imagined the worst.  Scared I was having a stroke, I woke my husband.

“It’s probably your anxiety,” Brian muttered, reminding me of previous panic attacks.  He sounded like all the doctors I had been to over the years.

“Not everything is caused by anxiety,” I snapped.

familyhugQI2A5222-36I didn’t have a stroke, and stress did appear to be the culprit.  It made sense, 2017 was a rough year of loss and health issues for our oldest daughter.  We decided a trip for spring break was just what we all needed. A respite from the harsh Montana winter might help and give us time to reconnect with our two girls.

We had gone to Maui two years before, over Thanksgiving break.  It was blissful – culminating in a vow renewal on the beach at sunset to celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary.  We wrote our own vows. I wore a gown the color of blush pink peonies, the girls cornflower blue. It was the wedding of my dreams.  We couldn’t wait to go back.

The tension released from my neck when we landed.  Our first days were spent with our feet in the sand, eating good food and whale watching.  We made plans to hike down to the Olivine Pools. We read about them in a popular tourist book; they were a must-see.

The view over the Pacific was dizzying, the path down a jagged, rocky descent.   The girls ran ahead.  I was distracted by the memorial of a child who died there and wanted to read every word.  Brian was getting impatient; the girls had not waited. I wanted him to yell for them to slow down.  He wanted me to hurry up. Time moved slowly, as we hiked down. Once at the bottom, I barely had time to catch my breath before our oldest, had stripped down to her swimsuit and wandered towards the ocean.  One minute she was there; the next she was washed away by a rogue wave.

“In the blink of an eye” is not just a saying.  She was screaming “help” and “I’m sorry.” Brian was running through the rocky pools.  The sound of the waves slamming against the rocks filled my ears. With another blink, he disappeared.  Leaving my youngest behind, I stumbled to the edge of the pools. Looking down over the rocky edge, I could see them in the turquoise water, waves crashing and swirling.  I was scared I could be swept away, too. I knelt next to a man who threw an orange towel to my daughter. Using all his strength, Brian pushed her towards the towel.  She fought against the current nearing it, while the undertow dragged him away.

“You’re a strong swimmer, keep kicking,” I yelled to my daughter.  The man threw the towel again. She grabbed it and he pulled. A wave washed her close enough to grab an arm.  Together, we yanked her, battered and bloody, over the rocks and to safety. When we all looked back to the turbulent ocean, Brian was no longer swimming.  I can still hear my own screams. What followed only happens in movies. It is a movie that my daughters and I now have on perpetual replay, even though we never speak of it.

I always believed I would be the first to go.  I was the one with health issues and anxiety, and worried constantly.  Brian came from tough Ukrainian stock and rarely went to the doctor. I always envied his “worry about it when it happens” philosophy.  I wanted his wiring. He kept me in check. With or without premonitions, the unthinkable can still happen.  No amount of worry could’ve prevented this.  Now, I try to listen for his words to guide me and strive to live in the moment.  Sometimes I hear whispers that all will be ok.

It’s a new year, 2019.  I crawl under the sheets, pull the comforter to my chin and wait for the dog to settle, like I do most nights.  He lets out a long sigh, and so do I. Another day is over, another year gone.  I look to my nightstand where Brian’s picture stands, and see that charming smirk and dimple.  Maybe he’s trying to be funny, laughing at me or thinking he loves me. Either way, I kiss that picture good night, wishing I could say “I love you” one last time.

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

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

Haven Writing Retreat alums!

Laura’s gifts are many. She has a way of pulling the story from the writer. She begins with a warming of the hive and by the end of Haven, she has drawn each person’s sweet honey out for all to taste! All good things come to those who wait. It took me years of watching Laura’s Haven retreats from a distance to get to a yes for myself. Thank God I got to a yes!  This was by far the best money I have ever spent on a workshop for my career and I’m deeply grateful. The writing instruction was epic and I left with a renewed love for the craft of writing. The thing that surprised me was the high level of skill Laura has as a facilitator for both the individual and the group. I have been facilitating groups for years and it is something that takes often hard earned skill, insight, passion and a touch of magic. Laura has an abundance of each and made a full-day, learning- packed workshop truly feel like a retreat! Brava Laura! 10,000 Thank you’s for sending me home better at everything I do, especially writing!
I can’t wait to come back for Haven II!”
–Kathleen, San Luis Obispo, CA  (Occupational Therapist)

If you are reading this testimonial, you were like I was: desperately searching for evidence that I should or shouldn’t go, trying to decide if I was or wasn’t a writer. If you are that person in that place, I would like to speak directly to you: go to Haven. If you have found Haven, if you have found this page, life is giving you a gift.  It is up to you to take it. Haven changed my life and my writing in all of the ways it needed to change. Laura is brilliant in a way that is difficult to put into words, but she has a superpower: she helps you shed all of the writers that you are not, and helps you leap into the beautiful writer that you are. If you aren’t sure of your voice, Laura will help you find it, and BELIEVE in it. She’s the writing fairy-godmother that I always wanted and now have. Get there. Jump the hurdles, bypass the doubt, walk through the fear, and get there.”
— Amy, Missoula, MT (Singer-songwriter)

This is the power of Haven: For one year, I hadn’t written a word. Not a one. I was stuck in a place in my manuscript, couldn’t figure my way out, and signed up for Haven in a last ditch effort to find the problem before I threw out the whole thing. But on Day 3 of Haven, after working one on one with Laura, I went out into the Montana wilderness with my computer and typed out 600 new words that unlocked the problem in my book. I’ve been back home for four days now, and am 10,000 words into a new draft with no sign of slowing down.” 

– Brooke, Vancouver, BC  (Speaker. Writer. Coach. Chef.)

 

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Haven Spring Blog Series – Part 4

Haven Spring Blog Series

Erika Putnam - The Last and Best Chapter

As I creep up one stair after another in my slippers I can feel the gradual rise in temperature from the warmth of last night’s fire. From the kitchen window I see the pasture below is glistening with fresh snow lit by what’s left of the moon. That means my morning routine will change from meditation, to the sound of my shovel scraping rhythmically across the deck. Before I venture out to breath natures chill I stoke the embers in the wood stove and brew a fresh cup of coffee. The routine itself is the companion I have crafted to allow a shift from the life I had to the one I want.

A bit chilled, I settle into the left side of the love seat and pull my coffee cup close. A new flame flickers in the fireplace and casts an eerie light on one half of the face of the Dall sheep mount perched above me. It’s before dawn and the Montana mountains are sleeping in the distance. The tall pines envelop my cabin from all sides and offer me the secluded privacy that gives my thoughts the space they need before I commit them to the page.

I have been writing a book for 8 years, and the ending has eluded me. Before the idea solidifies it evaporates like morning fog. Some things can’t be forced! At long last, a concept has emerged from the shadows of my spirit. The ending has needed the last two seasons of bear grass, huckleberries, and golden birch leaves to infuse what was then with what is now. Living here with nature’s raw edges has roused my desire to let go of a long lost love. My resistance has softened and the last and best chapter has condensed into a solid vision.

I am eager to pick up where I left off and open the Word file titled “Book Edits.” I am surprised to see I haven’t opened this file for almost two years. With a wince, I open chapter 3 and begin to read.

IMG_5314I loved my husband but our home life was making us both miserable.  It was 2010. The economy was assaulting our investments and we were both failing step-parenting.  To cope I buried myself in my computer with my mouth shut. He had withdrawn into guilt, shame and fear. Our battleground was set.  We were not talking. Not talking leads to fanaticizing about things being different, which leads to obsessive thinking about a way out. Which leads to looking deeper for the truth about what I really wanted if I would get really honest with myself. I started writing a lot, looking for answers, waiting for my heart to speak up and speak up loudly.

One night I couldn’t sleep. Despite my insomnia, I was more willing to spend time with my computer than I was lying awake in flannel sheets of sorrow.  It was two AM and I had perched myself on the leopard skin fainting couch and tucked myself into a writing nest with a blanket. My heart was as frayed as the grey sweatshirt I was wearing.

I was writing because I was searching for answers. I was giving myself permission to trust my truth. I was frightened to be completely honest but I had a desire and passion to find clarity. My motives were good. I meant no harm.  My truth in this moment did not exclude my love for my husband or our marriage. What I was writing was not meant to be time stamped forever. My thoughts had been fleeting and irrational. I was writing to discover my intention as a way of self-exploration without confinement.  I wanted to stop my own suffering.

I heard him roll out of bed. The bedroom door opened and my husband walked past me to the kitchen. He didn’t reach to brush my shoulder or kiss my head or even peak at my computer screen. I know he wasn’t thirsty, he was checking on me. He asked “what are you doing?”

I was cheating.  I was cheating on him.  I was writing, and it was about a man of my past. The one that got away, long, long ago.  I looked up, said “writing” and looked back down at my computer. I felt like shit.

My husband wandered back to bed but left the tension in the air.  The words started spilling onto the page.

Painfully, I recall that moment. I absorb the words and look outside to the gently falling snow. At last, the ending of that story makes sense. Moving on has closed the chapter of past suffering. Now, my fireplace has become a friend, my dog a companion, a sheep a reminder of my perseverance and winter the inspiration to finish eight seasons of waiting. I take a deep breath and begin typing the ending.

The story flows out and the sun comes up.  I reach over to my dog, Zen, and rub her soft copper ears and say “Hey beautiful girl, writing time is over, let’s get to work.”  I add a log to the fire and feel the deep understanding that my last chapter is now becoming my first.

Cynthia Urquhart - Those Words

It has always bothered me how my notes, words that I choose, cold and professional, would be the only vessel used to capture the circumstances of tragic incidents.

I reached for the little black notebook in my uniform pocket. For a fleeting moment, I tried to think about how many of them I might have filled, during my many years of policing, but lost the thought as I heard the ambulance pull away. The bright moon gave off enough light for me to write and with pen in hand, I was finally able to record the details of the night’s tragic accident.

I looked at the wreckage again, making sure my notes would be accurate.

Writing is something I do, all police officers do, every shift, in all kinds of circumstances.  My words flow easily, as they do at every incident, but they are harsh, empty, and detached. Businesslike with lists, descriptions and facts. I am used to it…well, I tell myself I am. I start writing: time, date, place. Information that is straightforward, rote and methodical. Head on collision, thrown from vehicle, one dead, two injured.  Disturbing, but manageable.  Names, dates of birth, next of kin make it real.  What I don’t write is this:  Anguish.  Their anguish, or mine.

I hate that words like grief and sorrow and despair are kept locked inside me by policies and procedures. No notations, no references, no freedom to be me, no place for my heartache in my notebook. How I want to release my pain. My sorrow. Words. Inside my head, they form, they flash, they bounce, searching for a way out. Looking for validation. I see them. I feel them. I fight them every day and every night. Until I can’t.

Same time, different day. I opened my eyes, panicked, turning towards the dimly-lit clock on my bedside table. I had been waking up at night for months, my therapist stating this was normal for someone suffering with PTSD. She said my brain was trying to process the years of buried trauma, that I was fighting it and that it would take some time. I often wondered how long “some time” might be, considering I had been in treatment for 2 years. I shifted my eyes to the journal sitting on the bedside table, purchased over 3 weeks ago, never opened, nothing to write. Or so I thought.

I stared ahead into the blackness, feeling a little more awake, but something wasn’t right. I could see the words. They were black, illuminated in white, in my head. Words like urgent and dread, calls, cold and cries. There were so many and they kept coming.

My panic rose and nothing made sense. I need to get up, I thought, and as I did, my eyes caught the journal and pen again. I wondered if I wrote the words down, got them out of my head, then maybe they might go away.

I grabbed the pen, picked up the journal, and opened its cover. I can’t explain what happened next, nor for the next 20 minutes to be exact, but I can say that the pen wouldn’t stop.  The words flowed like water from a tap and revealed the stories from my world. The pain lay on the paper like shattered glass. Pieces of it here and there, big and small, sharp and jagged.

As quickly as it had started, it stopped. My mind was blank. The words were gone.

What just happened?

I sat there for a minute, turned on my reading light, grabbed my glasses, and began reading.

The call came in, I filled with dread

Who would be the next one dead

A child, a man, the dog next door

Cause someone needed to settle a score

There were words of sadness and pain, anguish and hurt.

The dispatcher said the news is bad

A child is screaming, she’s lost her Dad

She’s all alone, just 12 years old

She says his skin is growing cold

Memories I had buried so deep.

I walk to her, I hold her tight

I tell her it will be alright

My tear slips out, then two then three

The grief engulfs the whole of me  

Those words made me see my pain and feel the hurt. Those words, in that instant, changed my life. I had fought against all of it for so long. Words, writing, stories and emotion. I smiled as my tears began to flow, thinking how ironic life could be. Words…the very thing that had closed me up and shut me down were now setting me free… .

 

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

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

Haven Writing Retreat alums!

Laura’s gifts are many. She has a way of pulling the story from the writer. She begins with a warming of the hive and by the end of Haven, she has drawn each person’s sweet honey out for all to taste! All good things come to those who wait. It took me years of watching Laura’s Haven retreats from a distance to get to a yes for myself. Thank God I got to a yes!  This was by far the best money I have ever spent on a workshop for my career and I’m deeply grateful. The writing instruction was epic and I left with a renewed love for the craft of writing. The thing that surprised me was the high level of skill Laura has as a facilitator for both the individual and the group. I have been facilitating groups for years and it is something that takes often hard earned skill, insight, passion and a touch of magic. Laura has an abundance of each and made a full-day, learning- packed workshop truly feel like a retreat! Brava Laura! 10,000 Thank you’s for sending me home better at everything I do, especially writing!
I can’t wait to come back for Haven II!”
–Kathleen, San Luis Obispo, CA  (Occupational Therapist)

If you are reading this testimonial, you were like I was: desperately searching for evidence that I should or shouldn’t go, trying to decide if I was or wasn’t a writer. If you are that person in that place, I would like to speak directly to you: go to Haven. If you have found Haven, if you have found this page, life is giving you a gift.  It is up to you to take it. Haven changed my life and my writing in all of the ways it needed to change. Laura is brilliant in a way that is difficult to put into words, but she has a superpower: she helps you shed all of the writers that you are not, and helps you leap into the beautiful writer that you are. If you aren’t sure of your voice, Laura will help you find it, and BELIEVE in it. She’s the writing fairy-godmother that I always wanted and now have. Get there. Jump the hurdles, bypass the doubt, walk through the fear, and get there.”
— Amy, Missoula, MT (Singer-songwriter)

This is the power of Haven: For one year, I hadn’t written a word. Not a one. I was stuck in a place in my manuscript, couldn’t figure my way out, and signed up for Haven in a last ditch effort to find the problem before I threw out the whole thingBut on Day 3 of Haven, after working one on one with Laura, I went out into the Montana wilderness with my computer and typed out 600 new words that unlocked the problem in my book. I’ve been back home for four days now, and am 10,000 words into a new draft with no sign of slowing down.” 

– Brooke, Vancouver, BC  (Speaker. Writer. Coach. Chef.)

 

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Haven Spring Blog Series – Part 3

Haven Spring Blog Series

Lauren Plunkett - Winter Wonderland

Seriously, could it get any colder?! I prefer not to go outside from November through March in this frozen northland but I must. I arrive at work, stuffed into my heavy jacket like a Christmas box sent from Grandma. I peel off jacket number one to allow four inches of impenetrable cotton and Lycra to breathe. My look today is hardly office attire unless clocking in somewhere in the Himalayas but do I care? Not today, winter. Thankfully, my office is tucked away from the majority of the inhabitants in this shared space of white walls.

Some may say that the view from my fourth-floor office window is Minnesota lovely if gazing through sideways sleet upon leafless trees and salt covered side-streets that sideline the highway, is your thing. My entertainment today will be the sound of kissing bumpers and I’m confident the screeching will begin soon. First comes brakes, then comes smashing, then comes the lanes of traffic parked in an orderly fashion. How delightful. I chuckle realizing there’s a worse place be.

In winter, just when you think your dues have been paid a costly opportunity comes knocking uninvited, like Uncle Eddie. I choked my chuckle back remembering that last year a driver poorly attempted to parallel park and rammed my car so hard it was lifted from the street. Right now, the last thing I need is someone tossing salt into my already sour mood. Snap out of it! Watch the sleet, take off a layer, and sit down.

I gaze longingly outside my office window hoping the scene will miraculously change into a perfect picture of sparkling sunshine that makes me sweat just looking at it. I want to feel the sun burning my skin and hot on my wavy hair. When I close my eyes I can feel a hot ray on my face and catch a waft of sweet coconut oil. My heart knows that paradise can be found in a shot of vitamin D chased with a gin and tonic. For just a few blissful seconds I’m taken away from this frigid desk where I’m frozen in thought. I’m one layer less and thawed out now but my winter boots are buried in the sand.

winterThe sands of time say wake up from your daydream and be an adult. You worked hard to sit at this desk and you better learn to love it. I’ve already whimpered away the entire morning but lo and behold excitement has come my way. LUNCH!

It’s time to walk it off and wake up my hands and feet from self-pity and lack of circulation. The temperature outside is sub-zero but the feeling inside this office is as cold and dark as a starless night’s sky in the dead of winter. My headphones have been fixed to my ears all day to protect the innocent victims I will make if provoked to speak. Therefore, I put pen to paper and begin to furiously write, which becomes the solution to keeping my big trap shut.

I write because I’m angry with what I cannot control. The sleet, the freeze, this office of discontent. I wish I could make this my happy place but I am but a single snowflake melting on the surface. There may as well be smoke and flames coming off my pen as I write as fast as possible to keep up with my mind firing anger-bombs that cannot be allowed to escape my lips.

We, mortals, cannot control the passing of time and the patterns of weather. Both of these things are getting the best of me at the moment so I write to take control of my emotions. I thank these crisp blank pages that allow me to purge words that don’t have meaning. I don’t understand why I have to write but I do it and it’s right and true. I have so much to say but where do I put all my words and who on earth would want to read them?

Somewhere out there beneath the pale moonlight another person that’s as miserable as I am might be writing to escape, just like I am. Maybe they write to save themselves from being judged or misunderstood. Maybe one day we’ll read each other’s words and be bound by a hatred of sleet and love of heat.

The lunch buzz has worn off and time has melted away. The temperature has dropped a few more degrees and the sleet has turned to ice. I bundle my layers, belt my heavy jacket, cover my face so just my eyes show and prepare to face my four block walk on a snowy sidewalk. The sun never came, but at least it’s happy hour and I have several freshly inked pages to show for a productive day on the job.

Laura Di Franco

“Come with me,” I pleaded, “It will be fun.”

“Not my thing,” he said. And the conversation ended. I sat on my unmade bed with the faded white down comforter half on and half off me and frowned. The rejection sat in the middle of my chest, like it had for decades. I brought my palm up to rub out the pain.

Fuck this, I thought, I’m not doing this again. I’m not going to let someone else’s no mean so much this time.

But it did. I did, let it mean something. I let it mean I was unworthy and unlovable. Then I remembered who I was and jumped off the bed, slid my new Ugg slippers the kids gave me for Christmas over my cold toes and headed down the hallway to my refuge.

The notebook was where I left it last, sitting on the special shelf in the kitchen I’d created for my collection; all different colors, shapes and sizes, some with sparkles and some more bland. I grabbed at the last one I’d started writing in and shuffled for a blank page, excited, ready to heal something.

My breath was deep and slow and relief fell through my chest and arms deep into my heart. My soul breathed with me and the words came:

I think I was once

so used to

the sadness and pain of rejection

I didn’t notice how tightly

the shrink-wrap molded

and melted

and burned

into the crevices of my heart.

Like a straight jacket

if you wear it too long

you learn to breathe shallowly

and survive.

You figure out how to live

and move

with the restrictions.

I finally allowed myself to feel

the crushing pressure,

smell the charred flesh,

notice my soul gasping

under the clench.

Today I know it will never be something

I give myself permission to get used to again.

But I had to feel it to enjoy that power.

I had to recognize the subtle

quiet

suffocating

infection

so I could know the slightest attempt

at a future attack

and swiftly step up to love myself

so fiercely

the light of my own essence

would shine on rejection

and the truth would show through…

I’m enough.

And I’ve always been that.

I titled my poem I’ve Always Been That. Many of my poems seem to end with the title. There’s something I like about that. A feeling it gives me. The tightness in me eases. The bigger thing takes over and it knows. The relief is palpable. The poem heals me.

I can hear him in the hallway bedroom. The door is closed. I slowly turn the handle, open the door a crack and poke just my head in to find him hypnotized by the game on his big-screen.

“Okay I’m going to go. I’ll see you when I get home,” I say a little easier than I expected.

“Okay,” he says.

And I go. And it’s okay that I go by myself. Like really okay this time. Going alone doesn’t mean I’m a loser. It doesn’t mean anything more than I make it mean.

I walked back to the kitchen where I’d left the pages of my notebook open, pen resting in the middle crack, and read my poem once more. And a smile came.

I’m enough.

And I’ve always been that.

 

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

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

Haven Writing Retreat alums!

Laura’s gifts are many. She has a way of pulling the story from the writer. She begins with a warming of the hive and by the end of Haven, she has drawn each person’s sweet honey out for all to taste! All good things come to those who wait. It took me years of watching Laura’s Haven retreats from a distance to get to a yes for myself. Thank God I got to a yes!  This was by far the best money I have ever spent on a workshop for my career and I’m deeply grateful. The writing instruction was epic and I left with a renewed love for the craft of writing. The thing that surprised me was the high level of skill Laura has as a facilitator for both the individual and the group. I have been facilitating groups for years and it is something that takes often hard earned skill, insight, passion and a touch of magic. Laura has an abundance of each and made a full-day, learning- packed workshop truly feel like a retreat! Brava Laura! 10,000 Thank you’s for sending me home better at everything I do, especially writing!
I can’t wait to come back for Haven II!”
–Kathleen, San Luis Obispo, CA  (Occupational Therapist)

If you are reading this testimonial, you were like I was: desperately searching for evidence that I should or shouldn’t go, trying to decide if I was or wasn’t a writer. If you are that person in that place, I would like to speak directly to you: go to Haven. If you have found Haven, if you have found this page, life is giving you a gift.  It is up to you to take it. Haven changed my life and my writing in all of the ways it needed to change. Laura is brilliant in a way that is difficult to put into words, but she has a superpower: she helps you shed all of the writers that you are not, and helps you leap into the beautiful writer that you are. If you aren’t sure of your voice, Laura will help you find it, and BELIEVE in it. She’s the writing fairy-godmother that I always wanted and now have. Get there. Jump the hurdles, bypass the doubt, walk through the fear, and get there.”
— Amy, Missoula, MT (Singer-songwriter)

This is the power of Haven: For one year, I hadn’t written a word. Not a one. I was stuck in a place in my manuscript, couldn’t figure my way out, and signed up for Haven in a last ditch effort to find the problem before I threw out the whole thing. But on Day 3 of Haven, after working one on one with Laura, I went out into the Montana wilderness with my computer and typed out 600 new words that unlocked the problem in my book. I’ve been back home for four days now, and am 10,000 words into a new draft with no sign of slowing down.” 

– Brooke, Vancouver, BC  (Speaker. Writer. Coach. Chef.)

 

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Haven Spring Blog Series – Part 2

Haven Spring Blog Series

Stephanie Rumold

I walked out of the bunkhouse and felt the smile move through my body.  I love this place, I thought, inhaling the cool, crisp air, its healing tendrils stretching through me.  It wasn’t just the air, or the sunlight peeking through the trees, or the mist left from the rain that morning which gave the air its heaviness, or even the tender care of the Dancing Spirit Ranch team.  It was the writing. I had all the space I needed to write at this writing retreat.

I feel more me, than I remember being.  The thought jumped into my mind, making my smile widen and my brow furrow at the same time.

Looking back, I see both the truth of this statement and the strangeness of it.  How can I be less me?

Well, thank you for asking.

Apparently, I can be less me by turning pieces of me off, which is what I did many years ago.  Had you asked me in my teens and even into my early 20’s what I really, really, really wanted to be, I would have told you:  I want to be a writer.  And, looking back with the perspective of a woman in her 40’s, I will admit, I wanted it a lot.

As a very practical person by nature, this was not the career path I pursued.  In fact, I didn’t even let myself write for fun after college. Journaling, sure, but making stories up in my head?  Creating dialogue? Letting my imagination out on paper? ‘To what end?’ my logical mind asked.

So, here I sit, in a posture abandoned in my 20’s, as well, my knees tucked under my butt, leaning over the table and writing about a time I left a piece of me behind and my journey to reclaim it.  That journey started seven months prior, as I was sitting with 200+ strangers at a creativity workshop led by two writers that I admire.

We were halfway through the second day of the workshop when I scrawled a question into my journal, “Are you a writer or not?”  The letters were small and illegible, as if I worried that someone would pick up the journal and read the question later and scoff.  Moments earlier, it had dawned on one of the leaders of the workshop to pose the following of her audience, “This was billed as a creativity workshop.  And, all we’ve had you do is write. I’m wondering, how many of you are not writers?”  She paused for a quick tally and observed, “Ok, about half.”

Since I did not raise my hand, I was feeling rather proud of myself.  I did not identify as “not a writer.” Maybe, in some deep dark place in my soul, I knew I am a writer!  The chills hadn’t even made their way from the top of my head to the bottom of my toes before she followed her question up with, “Ok, how many of you are writers?”

It was here that the bitchy side of myself mentally shouted at her, Hello?  Half! I know you are an artist, but come on, lady!  This is easy math. If there are two choices and half of the group is one thing, the other half is clearly the other!!

And, yet, I didn’t raise my hand here, either.  So, maybe it wasn’t such a stupid question after all.

It’s funny how life can change based on a stranger asking a question to 200 people that seems to be meant just for you.  Are you a writer or not, Stephanie? So, here I find myself a year later still trying to own this orphaned piece. Still trying to say “yes” when someone asks me, are you a writer?  I’m getting better at it. That piece is growing and getting stronger. Maybe at one time it was like that little plant growing in the fridge in the movie, Wall-E. But now, it’s more like a small garden, growing in an atrium.  One day, if I continue to care for it, it might turn into something mesmerizing and powerful like a rain forest.

Because going on a writing retreat helped it grow and reintroduced me to the feeling of knowing myself.  Going on a writing retreat gave me permission. Permission to use writing to process grief. Permission to escape into the world of my book.  Permission to write poetry. Permission to try and fail. Permission to try and succeed. Permission to be a writer, and, thus, permission to take back this piece that makes me feel more me…than I remembered being.

More Me:

Writing Daily.

Working through grief.

Brainstorming, creating.

An extraordinary relief.

Giddiness, my story.

Crackling energy.

More me than ever

I remember being

Nicole A Grant – Writing Truth

“I’m home!”

I make my way to the living room. He has planted himself in the same usual corner of the crimson L-shaped sofa. The television, to my left, would under usual circumstances be tuned into some political talk show, but now stands eerily silent; his cellphone lies face down on the glass-topped coffee table in front of him, an island between us. His attention is single-pointedly affixed in this moment to the screen of his laptop, perched on his knees, a physical blockade; and he holds in his right hand his glass of Pinot noir, an accomplice. My senses heightened, I can almost taste the sweet, oak-wood smell from the way he is swirling his wine, the rest of him moored, immovable as a mountain.

There is a studied perfection to his whole demeanor that makes my hair stand on end. “What is it? What?” I demand. The nervous energy is like a zone of high-tension voltage wires. He says nothing. He doesn’t even look up from the screen on his lap. This lack of basic courtesy irritates me to no end, the way he just ignores me like that, no acknowledgment. The swirling wine and silence are deafening and I so want to say something to mitigate my own discomfort (and irritation), but remain statue-like and dumb. The way he has barricaded himself into a corner with his strategic placement of technological and alcoholic defenses says everything I need to know really, and I know this beyond the level of platitudes at which we have been surviving for far too long now.

I will him to say something, but still he baits me with his silence. My hoarse indignation mounts. For too long I have been striving for answers to questions I don’t know to ask; I have thought myself a fool or crazy for all the confusion I have felt; and the worst of it, I have become this person I don’t want to be because of him, prying, snooping, spying. STOP! I scream inside. I…Just… Want…To…Know. The only certainty I have is that my mind misleads me and cannot be trusted. He looks over at the dark television screen, and I can almost perceive his ruby-red thoughts swirling in synergy with his wine.

Here’s the thing: Alone night-after-night in the queen-sized bed meant for two, the discontent, and more recently, the sheer torment I feel in my relationship to him flow onto the pages of my spiral-bound notebook—I have more than one which tells you something right there. In the dark hours of so many pre-dawn mornings, I take refuge in the all-encompassing silence and the fragrant comfort of coffee and, instead of my allotted meditation practice, allow a waterfall of words to pour from my pen.  While my heart splinters, my soul speaks to the page of the very things my eyes cannot see and my mind cannot explain. These words that I have written know the empirical truth, but my mind cannot separate fact from fiction. The brain is always lying it seems, or just plain wrong, but I have an overarching awareness of the truth and, conversely, of my complacency behind not wanting it.

The lack of peaceful coexistence between my wise intuition and my naïve ignorance alerts me to this inner conflict that has the texture of sandpaper and the astringent taste of unsweetened black tea. The fact of the matter is that knowing-for-sure means I’d have to make a decision about what to do, about what comes next. I don’t want to be charged with these decisions; there are children involved, and doing something other than everything else I have already tried means tearing their world (and mine) apart at the seams. What I want is for all of this to go away.

He is speaking now, but my mind cannot process fast enough what my soul already knows. Everything I had construed to be real and true and solid falls away. Yet, in the midst of this, there is absurd relief in knowing that I was led astray by his concoction of mistruths, intentional omissions and unscrupulous deflections, and that I am in fact not crazy or insane; there is absurd relief in not having to participate any longer in this sham of falsehoods and fiction this so-called marriage has become; and there is absurd relief in the fierceness of the fury I feel at having been sucked into this deception and run around in circles like a horse on a tether. I beg for just the smallest of excuses to unleash this smoldering Me-ness that would burn holes through my pages.

And realize, Here I am. I’ve come home.

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

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

Haven Writing Retreat alums!

Laura’s gifts are many. She has a way of pulling the story from the writer. She begins with a warming of the hive and by the end of Haven, she has drawn each person’s sweet honey out for all to taste! All good things come to those who wait. It took me years of watching Laura’s Haven retreats from a distance to get to a yes for myself. Thank God I got to a yes!  This was by far the best money I have ever spent on a workshop for my career and I’m deeply grateful. The writing instruction was epic and I left with a renewed love for the craft of writing. The thing that surprised me was the high level of skill Laura has as a facilitator for both the individual and the group. I have been facilitating groups for years and it is something that takes often hard earned skill, insight, passion and a touch of magic. Laura has an abundance of each and made a full-day, learning- packed workshop truly feel like a retreat! Brava Laura! 10,000 Thank you’s for sending me home better at everything I do, especially writing!
I can’t wait to come back for Haven II!”
–Kathleen, San Luis Obispo, CA  (Occupational Therapist)
If you are reading this testimonial, you were like I was: desperately searching for evidence that I should or shouldn’t go, trying to decide if I was or wasn’t a writer. If you are that person in that place, I would like to speak directly to you: go to Haven. If you have found Haven, if you have found this page, life is giving you a gift.  It is up to you to take it. Haven changed my life and my writing in all of the ways it needed to change. Laura is brilliant in a way that is difficult to put into words, but she has a superpower: she helps you shed all of the writers that you are not, and helps you leap into the beautiful writer that you are. If you aren’t sure of your voice, Laura will help you find it, and BELIEVE in it. She’s the writing fairy-godmother that I always wanted and now have. Get there. Jump the hurdles, bypass the doubt, walk through the fear, and get there.”
— Amy, Missoula, MT (Singer-songwriter)

This is the power of Haven: For one year, I hadn’t written a word. Not a one. I was stuck in a place in my manuscript, couldn’t figure my way out, and signed up for Haven in a last ditch effort to find the problem before I threw out the whole thing. But on Day 3 of Haven, after working one on one with Laura, I went out into the Montana wilderness with my computer and typed out 600 new words that unlocked the problem in my book. I’ve been back home for four days now, and am 10,000 words into a new draft with no sign of slowing down.” 

– Brooke, Vancouver, BC  (Speaker. Writer. Coach. Chef.)

 

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Haven Spring Blog Series – Part 1

Haven Spring Blog Series

Patricia Young - A Scene

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rebecca Deslauriers - Writing as Living

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haven Writing Retreat alums!

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

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

Writing as Living

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

The blog series starts on Wednesday, April 3rd! 

Please enjoy!

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

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

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

Haven Writing Retreat alums!

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, but slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go here for more info!  

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The Complete Puzzle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Laura

Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2019

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Heart Language

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You get to be happy now.

With love and gratitude,

Laura

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

Now Booking Haven Writing Retreats 2019

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

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

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

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