Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 18

synchronicity.

"Are you writing?" 

She asks me this with a squint, leaning toward her computer screen as if she's about to reach through and grab my hand. This is what she looks like when she means business. I imagine her students are frightened of this stare.

I look away. 

"Depends on what you mean..." 

"Fiction." 

Her reply is quick, her eyebrows raised.

"....then no." I can feel the tears coming and I have no idea why her question makes me so emotional. I blink them away. 

She falls against her chair and crosses her arms against her chest. "You have to start writing again, Elora." 

And I nod, knowing she's right but not knowing how to begin.

.::.

The next day, I'm sitting with my husband during happy hour. 

"Tell me more about this dream," he says.

I begin cautiously, not sure if I can untangle the webbing around details and scenes. 

"Well have you started writing it down yet?" 

I stare at him. 

"No." 

"Sounds like you need to start and see what happens." 

"Yeah, but..."

"Just start, love. Remember your craft." 

And there's nothing more I can say.

.::.

We're sitting in my living room and catching up on life. I ask her how writing is going, and she tells me a story of moving slow, finding creativity, fighting pushback.

"What about you? Are you writing? Or are you just helping other people and not yourself?" 

I study the hem of my shirt and feel the pressure build in my veins. I laugh to keep from crying.. 

"Um, no. I'm not writing. At least not writing outside of content for Story Sessions." I glance at her and she's shaking her head.

"That's not what you're supposed to be doing, Elora." 

She says it with authority, and I can feel the weight crash against my chest. She doesn't know this, but her words have unlocked something within me. Conviction, perhaps? Maybe inspiration. 

Or simply a kick in the ass. 

Whatever it is, when others join us and begin talking about multiple books and publishing deals, I make a quick exit in order to breathe and call a friend. When she answers, I jump into the conversation.

"Hi. I hope you can talk. I need you to talk me down." 

She listens, and then responds. I can tell she's thinking because she's pausing between words—making sure she gets them right. And then something snaps and her words come out in a rush.

"You know, Every Shattered Thing hasn't blown up—yet—but it can still happen. What would it do for you to go from thinking it hasn't happened to it will happen? It's like Danielle LaPorte, you know? When people tell her her dreams are possible, she always says possible? My dreams aren't possible. They're a done fucking deal—what would happen if you believed that line of thinking instead of freaking out about what you haven't done? What would happen if you believed you'll write other books instead of freaking out because you haven't started book two?" 

My end of the line went quiet. 

"I'd probably be writing right now instead of crying with you over the phone." 

.::.

Earlier this month, I wrote about the itching of wings and how when I was younger, I took to cheerleading and became the base. The spotter. Because if I couldn't fly, I wanted to help everyone else get there.

I'm doing it again.

I've taken the role of cheerleader—standing at the base of the mountain, hollering at those above that they can do it—just jump, I'll be here, your words matter, your story deserves breath, I can catch you. 

Even though I know they won't fall. They are fully capable of flying on their own.

.::.

I'm talking with one of the people who knows me best on the phone. Her words come fast and hot like they do when she's trying to chase after them. 

"What's in your core, Elora? What do you need to do in your core? Go there. Do that. Worry about nothing else." 

I sit in the chair out back, staring at the trees blooming with spring flowers. I think about Stephanie and the ending I know she has—and the limbo I've placed her in yet again as I wait for some magical fairy to give me permission to begin. 

"I don't know why I doubt. I don't know why I chalk it up to a season of no writing because I know what I'm built to do—I'm built for words. I think...I think I'm just scared. Unsure, even. Maybe even frustrated? I don't know." 

"But you know what's in your core." Her voice has gone soft now, and I can hear the belief behind her words. "You know what you're meant to do. So do it."

I smile and feel the weight of untold stories dig into my shoulders. I close my eyes and everything begins to fit together. 

"I know." I whisper. "I will." 

the itching of wings.

When we were younger, I remember climbing the couch all the way to the top and waiting for the itch in our hands to appear before leaping toward the floor. 

We liked to see how far we could fly.

We followed that itch every where. Monkey bars. Swing sets. Backyard pools and tumbling gyms. The higher, the faster, the further? The better. 

We wanted to be a ballerina for a minute. Do you remember that? We loved the way they jumped and twirled and defied gravity in so many ways. We walked into the studio clad in gym shorts and a t-shirt, saw the tights and leotards, and went running the other direction.

I felt you, though. Despite the it's okay, I didn't want to do it anyways, the pinch was there. And when we had a best friend in elementary and middle school leave for ballet class and talk about finally reaching point, we'd smile and wonder. Remember? Instead, we took to cheerleading and became the base. The spotter. We couldn't fly, but we helped every one else get there.

I think that might have been the beginning of the Great Hiding.

There were other factors too—hands in places they didn't belong and words thrown toward you at volumes you weren't meant for—but eventually, the itching went internal.

And instead of your hands reminding you where your wings should be, your heart scratched your insides and begged you to stay safe. That's when you turned to the pantry. 

You learned early on that a cookie worked better to satiate that scratching than anything else. So you ate. You ate the cookies and the tortillas and the peanut butter and the pies in the freezer. You ate the chips and the turkey and the candy bars and the chocolate milk.

And soon, you didn't even try to fly because of how heavy you felt inside.

A few years ago, someone gave you a rope. Do you remember? It was like a piece of red thread connected between here and sanity. 

The Great Hiding looked dark. Lonely. It looked like you may turn to the wallpaper for friends instead of the world outside and that's just not the way to go, you know? And you wanted the girl back—the one who would jump from things without even looking because of course she could fly. She had wings! There was itching to prove it.

That thread was the first broken belt on the strait jacket of invisibility. Nothing was satiating the scratching inside and now you knew it was because it didn't belong there. It didn't belong there and this whole time you thought your heart was working against you but really, she was just trying to get you to hear her because she was caged. 

She was caged and begging to go free.

She knows we're meant to fly.

I found the key, little one.

It's right here. I'm holding it. Are you ready? We were born to risk—to jump—to celebrate the softness of landing in our dreams. 

And today is the day the itching returns to our wings.

 

This post was part of Story Sessions' The Girls We Once Were linkup. Will you join us? 

listening to our stories.

I’ve heard it said before that there are two types of writers in the world: pantsers and planners. The pantsers fly by the seat of their pants, letting the story come to life as they type. The planners organize. Outline. Map out their characters. 

Writing Every Shattered Thing was definitely moment after moment of flying by the seat of my pants.

Watching that cursor blink against the white space and typing out Sunrises make me come alive I knew the story would be a raw one. I knew there would be situations and topics I would need to tackle in order to make this character who was bouncing around my head and heart come to life. 

She was the girl I mentored and almost adopted.

She was the student who left my class to cut in the bathroom.

She was the teenager who at seventeen had never heard the words I believe in you. 

So I started writing this story that felt a lot like telling the truth but telling it slant, and then Stephanie goes and throws a curve ball into the mix by admitting to Kevin her deepest secret. 

And can I just say I’m not one to write a morality tale? Like, I think at some point there was a small part of me bent on justice and wanting to explore my feminist tendencies within writing but not now. I’m more concerned with character development and staying true to the story. 

So in a lot of ways, I’m very much a reluctant messenger.    

Here’s the thing: I believe everyone has a story and that story can change the world of someone if we let it. And Stephanie? She gutted me. Giving her the space to breathe showed me things about writing and fiction and who I am as an individual I never anticipated. So this processing through storytelling quickly turned into an urgency. I began researching. I began calling up organizations. I asked questions. I listened. 

I found out that human trafficking earns more per year than Nike, Starbucks and Google combined.

I heard from officials who participate in raids describe what it’s like to plan the route of a rescue and how everything about it is harsh: the busting down of doors, the yelling, the guns everywhere, the snipers waiting in the distance. 

I heard from those who work with survivors talk about the frailty of the foster care system and how easy it is to make a quick buck on a child.

I learned that often, a knee jerk reaction is the worst and taking a breath and assessing is the best.

I remembered that in every rescue is a story.

And I finally understand the cadence of Stephanie’s words vibrating against my bones: 

The sky is screaming....the morning sky [screams] my discontent to a world not listening.

This is where the magic happened.

As a writer, letting go of all of these preconceived notions of the story I thought I would write was excruciating but essential to the characters. I had to remember the guts—had to remember the humanity, even—and once I remembered that, I could take the next step. 

We are nothing as writers if we can't take the time to listen to our stories—to learn and remember. The words may still come, and they may even hold a weight or two. But unless we listen for that rhythm so inherent in each of us—the one that serves as the undercurrent to our own freedom song—then what does our art even mean?

I think this is what I mean when I say I want to write holy and broken. When I watch the waves tumble over each other and whisper into the breeze I don't want my words to be wasted. I want them to be temples. It's not enough for me to write a story that fits the formula of bestseller or trend or top 100 list (even though, let's be real: any of those would be amazing). 

I want my words to move you. I want my words to move within me. I want to experience the feeling of hanging on as tight as I can to the words falling on the screen because the story is moving and I am running after it and my breath is heavy and my vision is blurring but it's working—the story is working—and nothing else around me means anything until those words have their say.

This is how I know I've created something out of compost. This is when I know I'm listening well.

the saltwater baptism of dreams.

Earlier in the fall, some of my friends and I made our way to a beach in Georgia. While there, we frequented a driftwood beach, where massive tree trunks blossomed out of the sand like a wooden graveyard. There was something hypnotic about those thick branches reaching toward the sky while the waves crashed around them. My friend told us earlier this beach was a thin place—and standing there I felt it—the distance between here and there—that place of Other? A fraction of an inch.

One afternoon, I stood on the edge of the shore while the tide came in and felt the sand wash out and over my feet. Something was happening internally. I could feel this shifting—as if my organs were moving around to allow space for something deeper. Something rooted. 

It's a strange thing to allow yourself the feeling of sinking when for so long you've been fighting against it.

But I stood there, and let the ocean caress my toes and feet and legs and knees and felt myself sway with the waves. My hair flew up and out and the sun beat down and warmed my arms from the cool breeze blowing haphazardly. I closed my eyes and listened for that rhythm I'd come to know—the one where my words stay—and I could hear them forming. Hear the letters crashing against each other and moving around to build the words that would one day describe this scene.

Looking down, I found a conch shell. I picked it up and rinsed off the sand and wiggled my toes free and made my way back to our gypsy camp we'd set up further up the coastline. As I walked away, the ocean waves crashing behind me, the tears started lodging themselves in my throat. 

Sometimes, the Beauty overtakes you. Sometimes, the salt water comes from every where and it's a baptism from all angles: the spray of the ocean and the spray of our soul.

I fingered the conch shell and grabbed a sharpie. I looked out toward the blue, where the horizon and ocean meet and you can't tell the difference anymore, and I thought of the past year. Of the breathtaking beauty and soul-splitting disappointment. There was hope and despair, excitement and rage, promising beginnings and harsh endings.

And I almost didn't hear it happen, but some how, despite the cranes and the seagulls and the waves and the distant voices of laughter and the boat's whistle in the distance—deep inside I heard a door softly shut and a new one swing open.

It was an invitation. 

I wrote all over the conch shell. Dreams and hopes and wishes and prayers. It mentioned something about being a mama and publishing and writing more and Story Sessions and loving my husband well. 

And then I kissed the salt water on the shell, walked toward the shore, and threw it back into the waves.

story 101 meets be

"You know none of this would be here if it weren't for you, right?" 

It's about the millionth time I've said this to my friend Brandy and she just chuckles it away. Her response is always something along the lines of how much I scared her when I sent her the email after we met in one of her Shalom Sessions letting her know I was quitting my job.

Every Wednesday we meet over Skype or phone. She lives in an area where she can point the camera toward the window and I'll see falling snow. I live where I'm often grabbing for another tissue because cedar or mold or some other allergen is wreaking havoc on our fair city. 

But ever since that first session when she stumbled through her questions and each one fell sharp against my calling and what I knew I was supposed to be doing with my life, we've kind of been a pair.

Now, we're bringing that to you.

Starting today and until March 2, you will be able to purchase both of our upcoming eCourses for only 165 dollars. 

That's right. Two courses for under 200 dollars. And? Normally Story 101 runs 165 dollars so really, you're getting two for the price of one. 

I first heard about Be. a few months ago when Brandy first whispered the beginnings of an idea she was percolating for lent. I knew it was going to be good. When she let the instructors know the syllabus, I laughed at the intuitive matching that occurred between our weeks and the word she'd chosen to focus on during our content. And when I read the page she set aside for registration the day it went live, I had tears in my eyes because this. This right here? It's what we need. So desperately. From her description: 

I wanted this year’s class to have a theme. But I felt more patient waiting for it to come than I had felt about these kinds of things in a long time. I asked Elora and Bianca to lead a workshop before I had even dreamed up the outline of the class. I trust these women with my life. When they said yes, I knew we had something.

I was leading a call for a Story Sessions Virtual Retreat on Knowing Your Limits (haha) when the conversation turned to rest. One after another, the women on the call shared how much they needed Sabbath in their lives.

I’ve never regularly practiced Sabbath. I have tried, but I usually don’t lie down until I’ve fallen over. I love this journey I’m on of words and shalom and making a living out of love. But I struggle with the work/rest alignment.

Be. begins March 3 and runs through Holy Week. 
Story 101 begins March 24 and lasts until June 2. 
Both will include content that will carry you through the rest of 2014 wanting to pursue your voice, your calling, and your rest.

Join us? Pay here and then fill out the form below. Brandy and I will get back with you in about 24 hours. 

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Thank you!

in defense of the sharp lefts.

The summer sun shone bright through the window in our living room and I eased myself into my favorite chair. It'd been a little over 48 hours since we heard the news that the birth mom would keep her son and every muscle and joint ached as if I carried the weight of a thousand moons.

My friend watched me, a small smile curving her lips. My husband came and sat next to me and piddled with his phone. I don't remember what we were talking about, I just remember mentioning something about "not knowing what's what" and feeling disconnected from the truth I felt so attached to a week ago. 

She caught my eye then. "Do you want to talk about it?"

My face broke into a tight smile and I shrugged. "I mean, we can but I don't know what I would say. We were sure, and then we were wrong. How do I even know which way is up anymore?"

She cleared her throat. 

I pushed down the feeling overtaking my chest: the way grief could unfurl at a moment's notice wasn't new to me, but the strength of this particular strand took my breath away. I focused on the sun's rays dropping through the blinds.

Stay in the light. Stay in the light. Stay in the light. I repeated to myself like a mantra, fingering the bottom hem of my shirt as if they were beads. My friend's voice broke through the silence.

"I don't know how to even categorize this situation, because I heard things too. I believed with you. But I see you in this hallway, and God pointing toward the end saying there. Go there. And you walking toward the light, imagining your destination is so close. When you get to the end though, He says now turn left. And you're left disoriented because wasn't this the end? Wasn't this where He wanted you to go? And it was. You weren't wrong in anything you heard these past few months. He just has more for you to walk. Your ending is actually in a hallway around the corner, and in order to get there, you had to walk down this hallway first."

She shrugged. 

"Maybe that doesn't make sense. Maybe I'm talking out of my ass. That's just been a picture I haven't been able to get out of my head these past few days as I've wondered, what the hell, God?" 

This picture changed everything for me.

In a world of this just wasn't God's will and your child is out there and He takes us through these tests for a reason, my friend offered me an explanation of I don't know—but I do know He sees you.

And that made a world of difference for a faith that was hanging by a thread.

.::.

My life with my husband has always been nothing short of heading down a certain road so we can take a right and at the last minute we realize we need to take a sharp left. 

Every time.

Two years into our marriage, we thought we were moving to San Diego for community. We'd live near our friends, open up a Building 826, and I would serve as the liaison between the center and area schools. We wanted to begin a partnership with students in Haiti and students here, writing books for each other and building relationships with communities across the world. The ideas we had were monumental and beautiful and ground-shaking. I knew we'd get there. I knew we'd be involved some way. 

And then Russ lost his job, and we landed in Austin.

I remember the first night we went out after we moved here. I remember driving with the windows down and feeling the cool breeze on my arms and allowing the beauty of the hill country to completely envelop me. I remember thinking I'm on an adventure with the love of my life. 

Nothing made sense. I was the girl who said, "I would never live in Austin" and now here we were....living here and loving every second of those first few months. I was commuting an hour to and from work, he didn't have a job and was in school, and we put a majority of our groceries on credit cards but dammit if we didn't have a pathway to walk. We finally knew where we were going. 

We joined a local church community about to plant, and became worship leaders. Russ finished out school, and started looking for a job. 

And then.

Seven months into our life in a new city, we were fired from our position at the church. That Sunday, the pastors told the community it had been our choice. 

Sharp left.

We were sent reeling. New Years Eve we cried in each other's arms and kicked the door closed on a season we thought held so much promise. Within a week, we crashed into another church community and felt fed. Connected. Healed.

We got involved with inner city youth ministry. We moved into the neighborhood our church focused on for restoration. We went to Africa with ten teenagers. 

We took in an 18 year old senior who'd stolen our hearts.

And in the fall, when we looked at him and told him we were adopting from Ethiopia, he broke into a pop and lock and smiled. 

"I don't care where you guys adopt from, moms. I just want to be in charge of my little brother or sister's wardrobe."

We laughed and agreed.

Six months after that, the romantic notions we held about moving nto an area for the intent of redemption fell flat. We moved out of the home we thought we'd one day purchase and into an apartment with another couple. Our surrogate son went home with his biological mother in Arkansas. We dropped out of the Ethiopian program and found a home at a domestic agency out of Houston.

Sharp left. Sharp left. Sharp left.

And now? Three years later?

I thought I'd have a book deal. Or rather, I thought the book deal I did have would have led to other offers. I thought I would have written another book by now. I thought we'd be parents by now.

I thought a lot of things, but I wouldn't change anything.

These sharp lefts leave me breathless and sometimes produce an ache in my bones that lasts for days. But, there's not many other moments in which I feel more alive—more human. I spend my hours looking inward and relying on the Spirit to show me where to go. Where I often stumble? When I go too far. When I suppose. When I say tomorrow I will do this or ten years will mean this. 

I mean, these past few years have just about sent me over the edge with when we'd become parents. I spent every waking moment not making decisions because "one day, and surely before that time, we'll have a kid." I can't think about the opportunities I said no to out of fear or expectation. It suffocates me.

But now? Now I know: I can hope. I can dream, even. But the only thing I can do is the next step He's given me.

Sometimes, this just means a whole lotta sharp lefts. 

witness.

When I was younger, my father used to tell me about listening. 

"You can't spend the entire conversation thinking of what you're going to say next. You have to listen. Really listen. Repeat what they tell you so they know." 

.::. 

I've spent my whole life listening. At some points it was a weakness. I sat in the corner, content to stay quiet despite the words pulsing deep in my veins. I chose to desert those words in fear of judgment or misunderstanding or feeling unworthy.

In September, I sat with women who shake the atmosphere when they enter a room. I listened as one of them said that our generation knows how to share our stories. What we lack? The doing.

"Our generation knows how to get things done to a fault," she said. "Your generation may need to take a page from us in learning how to follow through..."

And while there may be an element of Truth to what she said, I think really what we need to learn is how to witness. And not the evangelical hype of Romans Road. I'm talking about the looking-in-the-eye listening while a sister shares her story.

.::.

We were the first witnesses you know. Our sisters saw Him outside of the tomb and didn't run in fear or find a way to platform their revelation. They listened. They saw. And then they turned and spoke of what they experienced, repeating His words to anyone who would listen.

.::.

On Friday, I entered another room of women. To say I struggled with identity is an understatement. I was running away when a friend caught me by the arm and wrapped me in a hug. 

"I've been watching you." She said. "And I wanted to send an email but decided to just wait and tell you in person..." 

And then she spoke into me—claiming her place as a witness to my life and what God's been building. I felt seen, and took my place at the table with the shaky confidence of one who's unfolding has just been repeated back to her.

And Saturday, when I woke with the hazy memory of my awkward fumbling the day before, a whisper cut through to the core of me. 

"Claim yourself." She said. 

And so I did. 

.::.

In January, Story Sessions held a twitter party. We spoke of women and creativity and how we can build each other up instead of create competition and jealousy between us. 

"Champion. Don't compete." One of the newest members stated. We latched on to her phrase. It was one of the most retweeted comments of the evening. 

Champion. Don't compete.

Witness the unfolding—don't be so quick to find the loophole in which you can catapult yourself onto the stage with them.

.::.

Over the past few months I've been practicing more of lectio divina. And what this teaches me is to sit and wait and listen for the whispers of God. 

What do you have for me here? I ask. 

And He answers. 

In the Spirit language only Him and I know, He whispers things in my heart and it's up to me to follow through—to pay attention. 

But often times I don't like to listen. I fight the Truth or the challenge or the offering of love or the surprise because that's too scary or no one's told me that before or that's totally opposite to where I thought I was going...

But He's gentle, and keeps whispering, witnessing my own struggle and repeating back to me the Story He's created for me.

.::.

When we all try to play the same note, it sounds like a dirge. But if we take to what we know we do best—what sits at the crux of who we are at Spirit and heart—that's when the harmony kicks in, when our dirge turns into a freedom song.

And so I wonder what would happen if we quit comparing. I wonder if we began listening for those whispers—or if we took the chance to ask what's next. I wonder how we can grab the arm of another woman near us and celebrate her for who she is and what He's doing through her instead of comparing how many book sales or blog post shares or babies mama'd or pounds lost or whatever brushes against your deepest wound. 

Maybe we'd be less likely to burn those at the stake who think differently. Maybe we'd take a risk and ask other women—women who maybe even haven't ever known a stage before—to speak. Maybe we'd lift our eyes and see those around us who need community. 

Maybe we'd look them in the eye and speak into them what we see: a gifted woman waiting for someone to witness her unfolding.

rinse. repeat. breathe.

“I want to unfold. Let nothing in me hold itself closed. For where I am closed, I am false. I want to be clear in your sight.” - Rilke 

I hurt my shoulder this past weekend. I don't really know how, and I have full range of motion now, but Monday I walked around with my arm curled into my stomach like a broken wing.

What are you carrying that you need to let go? 

I heard this in the early morning hours as I was lamenting the pain. I scowled and shut my eyes tight, not wanting to listen or acknowledge the slow work of healing.

Later, the tears would fall as my friend rubbed the muscles taut like guitar strings. "You're meant to be heard!" she would say. "You're not meant to be bound. You are free. You are meant to fly and believe in these dreams because they are good." 

The tears fell and my throat opened up and I gasped for air—for breath—my muscles drinking in the oxygen and stretch. I closed my eyes tight again. 

Oh but flying means listening to myself. It means trusting that the stretching of these wings won't result in a crash.

I came home with an assignment: lay down on the bed while Russ works the muscles of my chest, compressing toward my shoulder and down my arm. Rinse. Repeat. Breathe.

Two seconds after his hands touched my skin the tears began to fall again.

His hands hesitated. "Does this hurt, love?" 

"No...well...yes but....keep going. It's not that. I'll tell you to stop." 

And I sat there, my eyes squeezed tight again but this time, I was breathing in tandem with the rise and fall of his chest. This time, the tears puddled underneath and I didn't move to wipe them or stop them or hide them. This time, I was listening to the motion of my love's hands. This time, I was leaning into the slow work of healing and learning that often, the stretching of these wings often takes the gentle touch of one who knows me best. 

I opened my mouth, and whispered.

{embodied}

She asks me the question often—how do you want to feel, Braveheart? 

Sometimes I roll my eyes. Because honestly—how does anyone want to feel? Do they even know? And what's with feelings anyway?

Here's some truth: I'm an inherent feeler and I spent most of my 30 years trying to hide the fact. 

So the eye-rolling? It was more of my "you're getting too close to who I am, watch out now..." But it's never left me. The question, to this day, haunts most of my decision making.

.::.

"So what would it look like to honor this emptiness?" 

The question struck me in the place between my heart and gut. I glanced away from the computer screen. 

This is too close to home. Too much of a needed answer.

I took a deep breath. Let it out. 

"Lots of painting," I said. Another word was vibrating against my bones and I dismissed it. "Probably lots of silence, too. I don't see myself writing a lot because there aren't really a lot of words for what this is..." 

She nodded. "This is not a season of words. I would agree." 

My heart pounded and whispered, giving into the word.

"And yoga. I need yoga." 

She smiled. "I was thinking the same." 

.::.

For an INFP, I do a lot to separate myself from my own desire and longings. I can meditate with the best of them, but I guarantee you it only looks like I'm meditating. This brain of mine works way too fast to grow quiet without lots of stern talking and I'm serious this time. Shut up. Please. Just for this moment. 

You see, for multiple reasons, I've spent my life detached from this flesh and blood exterior. Much easier that way. When your skin holds memory and your veins pump shaky darkness, it makes sense to cut those pieces off. But now, it's begging for attention. 

My arms tingle. Do you feel us? Do you see how you clench your hands when you sleep? 
My lungs demand a breath. Feel that beating? Notice the stillness? 
My feet tap a rhythm. Hear that music? Feel us moving? 
My heart skips a beat. Feel those hands? Notice those butterflies? 
 

Breathe it all in, sweetheart. Every last drop.
 

I close my eyes and stretch my arms above my head and circle down to touch the floor. I breathe deep. Feel every vertebrae shift as I stand tall again and suck in air. Hand above head again and reaching back behind me, I notice how my skin stretches. I breathe in and think of everything I want to feel. I breathe out the memories. The fear. The questions.

I want to feel everything. This is what a friend says on her tumblr. For years that sentence made me wince with what if. Now, it blooms with possibility. 

How do you want to feel, Braveheart? 

The question still echoes in the shadowy spaces inside. Today, I have an answer. 

Embodied. I want to feel embodied. I want to know this flesh and bone.

a beginning.

It's been something that has echoed in my spirit for months. 

Build a routine. Build a routine. Practice rituals. Practice rituals. 

And well, for a writer who's published a book and wants to publish more, I'm horribly undisciplined. 

Part of this is me pushing against the mundane. I don't need the website stats or to waste time on the perfect title or to get lost in the checking the box-ness of daily practice. 

But. 

I remember what it's like—the writing every day. I remember the blood-pumping through my veins and the tunnel vision and the words falling faster than I can get them down. I remember that rush and how much of a natural high it produced and yet I resist. 

"I don't want to put a box around my art" I say, and really, it's fear talking. Will I ever write another book?

"I don't want to waste my words on blog posts" I mention. Which translates to the worry of being pigeonholed.

I talk a big game, you know?  I'm nothing if not a dichotomy.

I'm learning that part of embracing wholeness is embracing all of me—even the messy bits. Even the piece (especially the piece?) that rails against opening up the new blog post area of her website because "who's gonna read it anyway?" and "I should be emailing Story Sessions instead" and "has anyone walked the dog today?" 

Here's the deal: I left this space for a long time because I was tired. 

Tired of the finger-pointing.
Tired of not feeling enough.
Tired of the pressure to perform. 
Tired of the risk in becoming someone's poster child for whatever cause they're hollering about from their corner of the internet. 

And I think I needed to step away from the consistency in order to get my heart back. In order to find the rhythm of the way my words beat against my chest. 

Because there's nothing that'll sap your energy and focus than when others try to suck up your words and breathe them out for you.

So this is me tripping and falling. 
This is me getting up and brushing off my knees and trying again.
This is me making this space purely my own with no other agenda.

I love words and I write the holy and broken and I believe your story matters. 

This is where I will begin to practice merging those three.