Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 19

{soft}

My word for 2014 came to me during the summer.

I read a blog post where the writer quoted Mary Oliver's Wild Geese and this line jumped out at me and grabbed me by the throat —

let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. 

Even more, the word soft echoed against my insides, like the vibrations of a tuning fork. I whispered this to a friend later that week and she smiled, saying it made sense.

For me, the year of risk was harsh. Pointed. I have a lot of bruises from last year—a lot of scars that are going to take a while to heal. And at multiple times I've mentioned how grief and love can bludgeon those sharp pieces into something smooth.

I think this is where I rest now. I'm sitting in the post-bludgeoning. 

I am not the same person I was when I started this whole one-word-for-the-year business. 

I am not naïve—I know the way a single word can turn you inside out and right again. I know the innocence of stating "this is where I am laying my flag in the ground" only to have you look back and laugh at the end of twelve months because if you don't laugh you may cry.

Jubilee brought the freedom. Abide brought the rest. Risk brought the bludgeoning. Each of them holding a beauty unique to the awakening involved.

So now, I'm going soft. I imagine it will look a lot like reacquainting myself with who I am under this flesh and bone. 

 

There are multiple ways I keep the word on the tip of my tongue throughout the year, and in 2014 I plan on using this playlist as well as wearing as much as possible the necklace I purchased from the Giving Keys with SOFT engraved on the metal. Do you have a word? How do you keep it close throughout the year?

because i'm into you, December

One of my favorite views in winter is tree branches brushing up against a hazy sky.

December always sneaks up on me. This year was no different. November kind of disappeared under my feet and I woke up one morning and realized it was a whole new month. I don't have a great history with December, and so I started the month with a new outlook and goal: woo her as much as possible. I honed in on advent, enrolled in a friend's eCourse and took some time off from always going-going-going. 

It worked well, because here we are at the end of the month and while I still am a little snarly because another advent came and went without our adoption moving anywhere, the month wasn't as bitter. 

For the first time in years, I'm not necessarily ready to kick down the door for 2014. 

I'm ready for a new year—and I have a lot of goals and hopes and dreams in store. But 2013, despite its heartache, was a good year. And as my friend Abby says, I'm still holding it up and shaking it because I know there's more waiting these next few days. 

books still reading ::  

>> Later this week, I'll be doing a separate post about my favorite books of 2013 <

remembered rapture, bell hooks

Jesus Feminist, Sarah Bessey

Women Who Run With the Wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D. 

Manage Your Day-to-Day: Build Your Routine, Find Your Focus and Sharpen Your Creative Mind, {edited by} Jocelyn K. Glei

for the love of poetry ::  

Holy Spirit, 
giving life to all life, 
moving all creatures, 
root of all things, 
washing them clean, 
wiping out their mistakes, 
healing their wounds, 
you are our true life, 
luminous, wonderful, 
awakening the heart
from its ancient sleep.

- Hildegard of Bingen

television ::  

In October, I watched the entirety of the first two seasons of Scandal. So December has me catching up with Olivia Pope via Hulu. Also? Brooklyn 99. 

Oh. And season 2 of American Horror Story is now on Netflix so....yeah. Despite its inherent creepiness, I think I am enjoying this season more than the first. 

music :: 

Beyonce. Because duh.

But when I wasn't listening to Beyonce? I was listening to this amazing advent playlist on spotify.

on beauty ::

I found Julep through a friend a few months ago and I'm so obsessed. It's a subscription for nail polish. Um, hello. And the colors are amazing + creative + stay on your fingers more than a few days. Especially with this color. It's called Jane, after the founder. I would like it on my fingers only all the time. 

everything else :: 

Mussels and St. Germain with my love on Christmas Eve. 

House concerts with the best of friends Watching my man do what he loves to do for other peopleReading five books in less than a weekBeginning the practice of spiritual directionWorking and wrestling through advent with our communityWalter MittySurprises in the mailboxA two-week vacation and sabbathFinding the art store in the middle of a massive clearance Embracing the difficulty and grief in saying "no" Wild MysticsActing out my last risk >> asking Girls' night lasting until the wee hours of the morning

What about you? What's made your December magnificent?  

:: Linking up with the amazing Leigh Kramer for her What I'm Into posts ::  

12 days of letter writing.

I love letter writing. Even more, I love receiving letters. It's one of my favorite things about Story Sessions. We don't just share life with each other via the screen, we take the time to handwrite {and sometimes paint, create, etc} words for others to hold.

There's something magical about receiving an actual letter in the mail—not a bill, not junk mail, not a book of ads. 

But a letter. 

You feel seen. Noticed. Loved.

In November, I got an email from my friend Hannah Brencher about More Love Letters' 12 Days of Letter Writing Campaign.  I knew I was immediately in, partially because I love Hannah so much, but mostly because I believe in More Love Letters and what they do.

So here I am, introducing you to Lois—one of MLL's bundle recipients. Will you consider writing her a letter with me? 

This request comes to us from Lois’ loving daughter. She writes: “My mom, age 88, and dad, 92, have been married for over 67 years. Mom has been the sole caregiver for my dad since he suffered a debilitating stroke 14 years ago. She has been totally devoted to caring for him. Three weeks ago she had to have knee replacement surgery and for the first time in 67 years they are separated until she recovers. They are both having such a hard time being apart. She is in a rehabilitation center and working so hard at her physical therapy so that she'll be able to come home and care for him once again. Unfortunately, due to her age her recovery is not going as well as she'd hoped. She could really use some love letters and encouragement.” Let’s put pen to paper and lift Lois’ spirits today!

Address: 
Please send all love letters to: 
(We ask that all love letters be in the mailbox by December 20th!) 

Lois' Bundle
c/o Darla A.
2445 Kips Korner Rd.
Norco, Ca. 92860

the problem with plagiarism.

When I taught high school English, one of my favorite things to do was gather the pile of papers turned in over the week and sit and read my students' words. I always felt like I held witness to a sort of alchemy. 

These words—these sentences—didn't exist before the assignment. My students created a thought and placed it on paper. To say I was proud is a complete understatement. 

Every once in a while though, I'd find one that didn't seem right. I'd whisper the words and it didn't sound like my student talking. There would be vocabulary larger than the cinderblock walls of the school building. Or suspicious hyperlinks included within the pages. Or {my favorite} the font would completely change. Sometimes, a few friends gathered together and in one notorious case, they finished the summer assignment and turned in about ten {from what we caught} word-for-word assignments. Carbon copies of one another, they claimed we didn't know we couldn't work together. 

But it was more than that—it always is, really. What upsets me about copying {in whatever form} is the lack of courage involved. 

The alchemy of words doesn't just appear on the screen in front of you. You can't search the internet for {insert topic here} and then input a certain formula for a winning combination of sentences and paragraphs. It takes blood, sweat and tears. It takes lots of pruning. 

It takes an excavation that often we aren't prepared or ready for—no one ever tells you about the battle wounds of writing.

So to copy the words of someone else and paste your name underneath them? It's cowardly. 

And it's happening way too often. 

I notice patterns. It's what I do. A few years ago, a graduate student lost her publishing deal when it was discovered she plagiarized a YA novel. Last year around this time, there were a few cases within the indie publishing world of complete books plagiarized and passed off as the author's own original work. 

And lately? A few weeks ago, a prominent pastor was accused of lifting pieces of his latest book from a book published last decade. This morning, on my way to the coffee shop, I heard of two separate cases of plagiarism from two different disciplines. 

These aren't high schoolers, people. These are adults. 

And I wonder why it was so hard to encourage my students to find their own words.

Listen. We have to treat plagiarism for what it is >> stealing. In my classroom, we spoke of academic integrity and autonomy and using the brain God gave you to come up with something intellectual. If you were caught copying, whether completely lifted or reworded without citation, you were warned. If you did it a second time, you were kicked out the AP program, no questions asked.

Our message was clear :: 

It's not a game, and it's not funny, and you won't get away with it. 

The problem with plagiarism is simple: it shatters any form of originality you have within you. Once you do it, you begin to question the thoughts you own. Why listen to the voice inside when you can go grab someone else's that obviously worked? Why pay attention to the story rattling around in your veins when you can grab this scene from that book and another from this other one and piecemeal them together to make something different-but-irritatingly-similar?

Plagiarism sucks the breath out of the original artist and quiets the voice within you. No one wins here. No one.

Be original. You have a story. Tell it. Speak it. Pull it from your bones and show us but let it be YOUR story. Not some fabrication. 

I'm begging you. The world needs original art. We need your words. You have it within you—I promise.

breathing advent

She asked how I was doing. I paused long enough to let the honesty sink into my bones.

"Exhausted." I said. "Exhausted and waiting." 

"It's like you're breathing advent" she answered.

And my breath caught in my chest because how did she know? How did she know that this month more than any other month embodies me and swallows me whole? I become the dates and the hours and the minutes and waiting takes up every square inch of this skin. 

Another friend tells me that December is her darkness. I smile in response to that, because for me, it has become my holy place. 

It's my holy place because it is my darkness.

I think we've forgotten that holiness appears anywhere—catching us off guard and pointing us toward Home. And sometimes, we flail and thrash because not here. Holiness does not belong here. 

But maybe that's the point? Because if I remember correctly {and I think I do}, this season is about bloody and messy and labored breathing amidst animal dust and the scent of straw crashing into Divinity and angel song. 

It's baby fingers clutching at eternity.

The juxtaposition of messy and holy.

So yes, I am breathing advent. I am sitting in the dark, expectant. And while I rest here, the vibrations of holy—of promises fulfilled and the moment of exhale—grow stronger and stronger.

Story Sessions Anthology #x3E;#x3E; December

Editor's Note :: every other week, Story Sessions compiles a list of posts written so we have a place to reference all of the words spilled by our sisters. This mid-month edition was particularly powerful, and so we wanted to share it with you. Sit back, enjoy, and if interested in joining us, know there's  always room.

.::.

Here we are, in the middle of December, that time of year when we are both trying to slow down and yet, can never seem to catch up. Can I invite you to stop for a moment and take a deep breath?

Exhale.

He is here. Emmanuel, God with us. He is here.

There were so many vulnerable, beautiful, truth-full words spilled this month. I never cease to be amazed at the brave we have in our midst. Eshet Chayil, all of you.

Take some time, grab a coffee, put on some Christmas music, and savour these words. 

Just as December was creeping in, some shared their hopes for the month ahead...a month always filled with so much expectation...

December, I hate to sound like a demanding lover, but you have much to rise up to. I hope you have plans to pull me close, to love me into places I have never gone before. Yes, November loved me that well and my body still trembles with remembrance; its scent still fresh against my skin. "Dear December" by Jennifer Upton

I long for someone to show up; to make sense of all this madness. I long for someone to step in and set all the broken things right...I long for someone to show up and shine light in the dark places. I long for someone to spit in the dry earth and rub mud in my eyes so that I can see. I long for someone to bandage wounds and raise the dead. I long for someone to take me home. “whispers. the first night of advent.” by Alison Luna.

Are you surprised I'm still opening the door? Me too. Hope does funny things to a heart once she makes herself comfortable.     “a letter to december” by Elora Nicole.

The season of waiting, of anticipation, and hope beginning on the first day of the month seems like some sort of sign. Yet I feel none of those things this year.  I don’t want to wait, I don’t want to anticipate, and I have very little hope.  I want God in a big way and I want it now. “Letter to December” by Kimberlie Meyer.

You are the queen of the unhappy. You are the gathering place for the throng of discontented. You open your arms to a tremendous lot of pain, loneliness, denial and all the ways we run away from it. You are the home of the runaways. The light in the window for the broken-hearted. The year crawls by in despair and you are the last-ditch effort to make it all make sense before the world freezes us out altogether. At the end of November, you look like hope from myriad angles. “To December, with Love” by Jamie Wright Bagley 

This year, you’ll be mostly the same as you’ve always been. Full of opportunities to crash and burn. Full of chances to stopandbreathe the mischief and the magic AND the mayhem. You’re just a month, December. Just a period of time marked out by people because  we need the markers. A period during which we wait and we watch and we decorate. You’re a lot of fun, really, if I’ll let you be.  And I’ll let you be because while you are just the same, I’ve become radically same-different. “Dear December” by Maritza Amanda

I have found the word to name the thing that whispers in the dark to me you are not enough. It’s name is scarcity, and it is not welcome here  “Dear December, Your Scarcity Isn't Welcome Here” by Abby Norman

What can I say? I have always embraced you, arms and heart wide open, ready to push aside the dreariness and drink in your sparkle. No matter how weary my heart may be, you come near, and I begin to find renewed faith in miracles. Hope raises her head once more, in spite of anything else trying to smother her fire. “Dear December” by Adela Just 

I have a bit of a love-hate relationship with you, I must admit. The candlelit service on Christmas Eve gets me every time. But the lugging of bins, the setting up the stuff, the overkill with gifts — yeah, that has gone above and beyond what is needful... “A Letter to December” by Diana Trautwein

Shimmering and shining in the distance;
A new beginning sparks from the embers of the old. “Ode to December” by Susan Schiller

Come, December, carry me like a leaf on your ever-changing wind. I’m light enough to float for days this time, everything that weighed me down already stripped away.  “Dear December” by Shelby Lin

You are a reminder to me that there is true beauty waiting to bloom in the ugly little. “"ugly little (a note to December)" by Ronne Rock.

It seems like I've wasted so many Decembers. I've been waiting, waiting for the new year. Waiting for my January. I've saved my resolutions and my new beginnings. I've saved up all my moments in one year hoping I could cash them in the next. I can't count how many times I've waited. Because you weren't perfect, because the stars hadn't aligned, because I was scared. “A Letter to December” by Victoria Haag

and there are so many things I do not know.
so much wild ridiculous hope
so I’m embracing the mystery
holding this crazy wild thing with open hands  “Dear, December” by Kati Rose

There are a few of our Story Sessions Sisters who are hosting and writing for a series. There was so much goodness to be found here!

Bethany Paget is hosting some raw and vulnerable words with her series “It is Written.” Bethany began the series with her words of hope coming out of brokenness in Part One:

“As I took the Sharpie to my skin, in places that had been hurt and wrote words of love I was able to feel the shame drop.  The blame I have carried wash away and the ache of my soul for year’s old pain dim” 

In Part Two, Beth Morey bravely shared some of her story: 

“No kicks, none of the rolling in my belly that filled my blood and skin and synapses with joy.  A midnight drive to the hospital, calmly checking in at the labor and delivery desk when all I want to do was scream something’s wrong, help us, help her instead of smiling thinly and filling out the form the receptionist slid toward me, scribbling my signature with fingers weighted with fear.”

We all swooned over Jennifer Upton's courage and vulnerability with her post “Naked Truth” at Nicole Romero's blog. Pictures of hope after heartbreak, of a marriage made stronger by fighting through the darkness. 

Nicole has been hosting other Story Sessions Sisters as well, like Tara Owens, who shared a thought-provoking and brave piece “The Crowd in the Bedroom.”

“But I’d much rather come to my marriage naked, broken, hopeful and reaching than covered, certain, entitled and isolated. I’d much rather reach and wrestle together than grow silent and still”

Beth Morey is hosting a series “Hurting for the Holidays,” and there have been a number of our Story Sisters who have shared their words there (the link above is to the page with the collection of the posts)

“Lately, the nostalgia and loneliness have settled into a constant ache. And it's not the ache of lost promises or forgotten desires.

It's the heaviness of hope.” Don't Ever Regret the Hope by Elora Nicole

“there's that word :: Advent. coming into place. coming into being. it feels so wrong to be grieving during this time. this is that time of opening. this year it feels like cracking, a wild splitting that is rending me into pieces.” When Advent is Grieving by Rachel Lee Haas

“This will pass, my love. The pain, the fear, the anger -- it will pass and you will survive. Reach out dear one, even if all you can mutter is a weak help, know that I hear your cries. And I am standing with you and love you.”Permission Granted by Brittany Gooding

“During the holidays, though, being in a blended family feels a bit more like being in a blender. And talking about it? Processing the longings for children while chasing around my two-year-old grandson or joyfully (truly, joyfully) hosting my beautiful pregnant step-daughter? Not going to happen. It’s enough that I deal with my own issues of performance and perfection, the ways that I strive to make the Christmas-that-isn’t-on-Christmas-Day gathering just as special as the actual day.”  Living In-Between by Tara Owens

Here are some more of the beautiful words that were birthed in this community, words that brought hope and healing, that named shame and called out the darkness. Words that resonated and sent shivers and were a reminder that, yes, indeed, God is with us. 

For these words, oh, these words are holy.

“In all those trips around the sun — never feeling the Earth move beneath my feet — I was grounded by the practice of stutters and blurts. By "not caring" more about what someone thought than how I knew I had to be. It was messy; there were outbursts that still make me cringe to think about. But I did what I had to do ...”  Beginning in Darkness by Teresa Robinson

“I shared that much had been taken from me. I told several stories, in necessary detail, of the things I had endured at the hands of her son. For the first time this woman showed empathy towards me. Her heart began to soften. I showed her a faded scar. And then I began to describe who I am today. I am no longer a victim. I am not weak. I don’t even call myself a survivor. But I am a woman of strength.” Reconciling Love by Kara Bechtle

“Everything I need to feel the magic of the season I already have. Cool to the touch, burning within, eyes to see and ears to hear and a great, great yearning for the miracle birthed again into the dark.” A Pox on Your Scarcity by Esther Emery

“My waiting is for a set of larger boots to keep mine company by the front door. It’s for lazy Saturday mornings where we pretend that we’re out of town but we really just sleep in and make waffles way too close to noon to call it brunch. It’s for a forever plus one. It’s for a hand held, a back had, and names that sound like poetry when spoken by the other who was meant to speak them the most.” Esperar by Suzanne Terry
 

Caris Adel's husband shared some of his thoughts on why he doesn't call himself a feminist in “I'm a Feminist but my Husband Isn't (and might never be).”   

“A few months ago, I wrote my obituary. And its words breathed real, pure air into the dreams I had been holding in hope-filled hands like a warm cup of coffee on a wintery day. Asking myself how I wanted to be remembered revealed how I wanted to live and what I wanted to do – unapologetically do – and where my simple, still-water joy is found. It painted a picture of me that I had not ever seen before. A brave and beautiful picture.” doodles. obituaries. self-portraits. By Ronne Rock

“When 2012 began to shut the curtains and lock her doors, I was already out in the cold waiting for the new year.”on magic, disappointment and declarations by Elora Nicole

“Isn't this the story? The broken and the beautiful woven together, and somehow God in both.” Broken & Beautiful by Lindsay Tweedle

“It's so appropriate to this season of advent, in that I can't say as though I look forward to "waiting" in and of itself.  But I do look forward to "waiting" in the sense that I know something good comes at the end.  I may not expect what that "good" is, but I know I'll figure it out eventually.” Treatment for Spiritual Asthma by Laura Jacobs.

“this season is a cracking. it's foreshadowing of the next season of Holiness, for the breaking and bleeding and the tearing from top to bottom. there will be an earthquake then, too, as angel feet brush against stone. it's an opening in the darkest of places. it's a springing forth in complete darkness.” anticipating scarcity by Rachel Lee Haas 

Morgan Paddock writes about embarking The House of Dreams, a ministry in the inner-city of Savannah, GA in “When a House Becomes a Home”

“i'm the blogger that hasn't written a book...it's hard to feel like a lioness when you're mewing and scratching at the door in your own head.” When You Haven't Written a Book by Rachel Lee Haas

“it's the time of imperfection. if we were perfect, there would be no need for this season, for this waiting for the cry of One who came to gather us into Himself. for the One born of blood who came to bleed. He was born to stain, to leave a mark on all He touched.” The Holiness Midwife by Rachel Lee Haas 

And while we're sharing some of Rachel's beautiful and holy words, she was featured on Preston Yancey's blog for his series “ What Women Want .” 

“He asked me what I wanted. What did I, a woman, want from the Church? And my mind filled up with options. I had my nose pressed against the glass, gazing at all those tasty bits waiting for me just out of reach. I could see them all, laid out in perfect little rows. My mouth was watering. I had tiny bites of each, barely crumbs really, but it was enough to know exactly which one I wanted the most.

I wanted the one marked “voice.” 

“I see you. I hear you crying out for justice and being thrown to the wolves. Tell your story, sweet one. Start a chain reaction of spontaneous prayer and amplify your voice as this cry rings through the heavens and reaches even down into the bowels of the earth. Tell your story – that's how you walk out into the Light.” I See You by Susan Schiller 

“Jesus never promised rest from the craziness of life. He promised rest for your soul.” Hope by Shelby Lin

“This sacred pause is a catapult into uncharted territory, where the Divine collides with your story and redirects your path” Why Shouldn't I Begin Again? By Adela Just 

“We can love our way to a new normal. And we can do it, not out of anger or fear or disgust, but with love and humor and massive amounts of creativity.” Door Number Three by Brandy Patterson Walker (this is part of a series Brandy is writing on her blog, 31(ish) Days of Meaningful).

Have you been reading Jane Argiero's Advent series? There have been some lovely reflections, including this one from Advent Day 6, written just after the passing of Nelson Mandela:

“I get strength and courage from the courage shown by others, around me and with me. But I also gain inspiration from those who have gone before me.  We have so many great examples to follow. I have my parents, and others I know personally who have influenced me to try to make a difference in the world.”

“I'm thinking of holding squishy arms and baby legs and whispering so close I can taste the baby-breath he helped bring you here. This one? Did you meet him? Do you know him? He helped bring you to my arms.” Legacy by Elora Nicole

“Did you know the Big Deal about the bite from that fruit was that we would forget that God loved us?” The Lie that You're Not Loved by Lindsay Tweedle

Susan Schiller is hosting a blogging Progressive Dinner on Sundays, an opportunity for bloggers to link their favourite post of the past week or so, and then to read and comment on other posts. Such a wonderful idea! 

Look how we have shared our hearts here. Look how we are building a community. Look how we are being writers. This is beautiful and holy and sacred. Enjoy these words...may they be an inspiration, a comfort, a whisper to your soul from the One who loves you.

 

(Anthology compiled by Lindsay Tweedle)

2013 #x3E;#x3E; on magic, disappointment and declarations.

When 2012 began to shut the curtains and lock her doors, I was already out in the cold waiting for the new year. 

Literally. I walked out of the front door at a friend's NYE party and waited for the clock to strike midnight in their front yard. 

2013 couldn't come fast enough.

I'm beginning to see the curtains of the year rustle around me. I hear clicks of locks and there's a dissonance inside. 

2014 brings lots of new. I'm ready for it.

But not before I grab 2013 by the collar and let her know how I'm not ready for her to go.

This was the year I found myself in a word so unlike me—risk. Always the good girl, always the one who avoided confrontation (ahem, INFP). This year brought plenty of bubble popping and skirt-raising. I started a business (what? me?), re-titled and revised and self-published Every Shattered Thing, landed an amazing agent, and found a community of women who take my breath away with their words. I spent time in the hills and by the ocean and each rejuvenated me in ways I never anticipated. 

I got a tattoo named Icarus in the shape of a feathered quill. 

But before all of this, the year looked promising. I found hope again in March after an incredible desolate winter. 

In June, you know the story. It shattered around me. Again.

But I learned how to pick up the shattered pieces for the second time and take that first step back into waiting. 

So much happened—so much good—that it seems selfish to stomp my feet and holler a I'm not ready to go until you bless me type of statement. 

But it's true.

I thought 2013 would be the year of twins.

Book deal. 
Adoption.

And it's funny, because 2012 pointed in that direction for a solid minute before both fell into ash around me. You think I would understand the dangerous lure of expectation.

Maybe it's the golden tint I tend to paint on everything, but I still have an unwavering hope, in these last 20 days, that something beautiful and magical could happen. Because if 2013 taught me anything, it's to start believing in magic.

 

This was a prompt from Story Sessions. If you're wanting a community of women who write and who will believe in your words, join us. There's always room, and 2014 is looking to be a promising year for us.

retreating

Last April, in the middle of the Texas hill country, women from around the US gathered for four days of rest and inspiration and community.

I found a hint of my purpose there in those rolling green hills. As I sipped coffee and wrote in my journal Friday morning, I realized I could do this always. Gather with fellow women and sojourners in this creative life to wrestle with the tension of marketability and art for art's sake and believing and speaking into one another's giftings. 

At first, I had this grand scheme of in-person retreats about three or four times a year. But money and logistics halted that dream fast and in a hurry. One day Story Sessions will get there. But not today. And that's okay, because since that retreat, we've held three virtual retreats where we meet together around our computer screen and for four days wrestle with the same topics and breathe into one another the Truth of who we are: 

writers. 
dreamers
mystics.
artists.

Through these retreats I've gained clarity for visions and learned the practice of naming. I've been reminded about the importance of writing through expectations and the simple fact that a rough draft is just that—rough. We've spoken with bestselling authors and met across state lines to stay with strangers who aren't so strange in a retreat-like hotel room.

We've met over tortilla chips and jalapeño ranch and laughed until we cried.

In January, we're doing it again and I would love for you to join.

Since walking with the ladies in Story Sessions, we've often mentioned the difficulty in balancing art and work and motherhood and faith and everything else on our plate. How do you scribble down a sentence when the babies are crying in another room? How do you ignore the dishes {and do you? Is it wrong?} and instead write the chapter begging for release? And what about ritual? How do you write as a spiritual practice—with discipline and expectancy and belief?

Is it even possible? 

I believe it is not only possible, it's essential. 

These dreams you have of writing? This ability? It's not an accident. Our words are not meant to be placed on a  shelf only to collect dust in the midst of dirty bottles and work deadlines and piles of laundry. 

It's hard. It's so hard. I get that. But it's possible.

Join us January 22-26 as we discuss creating discipline, embracing curiosity, knowing our limitations and increasing ritual within our daily practice. We'll talk about what it means to take a look at nature and her seasons and what that means for us as artists. We'll struggle {together} over the amount of musts we face every day. 

And we'll leave with a plan in place to get us to the finish line.

Will you come? We would love for you to be there—to join us as we sip our coffees or gin and tonics or glass{es} of wine and laugh over shared connections. 

Registration is only 88 dollars and the first twenty who sign up receive a free coaching session included in the mix.

 Interested? Come join us! Choose your package below and fill out the form and you'll be contacted within 24 hours. 

To purchase a ticket for admission :: CLICK HERE

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what does an emotion sound like

What does an emotion sound like
when it cracks and burns
the faded hope left unwanted 
and buried in the heap of dreams jangling from the wolf's mouth. 

What does it sound like when 
Fear grows feral and snarls quick and fierce, 
snapping at love in the jagged way of grief
ripping at wounds 

What does it sound like
When it believes in the fairy tale--
swooning and gorging on the fields too empty to roam

Maybe it sounds like the rat-tat-tat of the keys
when typing
or the slap-clap-slap of the haka-warrior
banging on his knees 

Or maybe it's just a whisper, quiet on the breeze.

.::.

Story Sessions is participating in 40 days of poetry. This poem was inspired by Abby Norman's prompt of what an emotion sounds like.

If you want to join us for future challenges + prompts and inspiration, check it out—there's always room for you.

a letter to December

Let's just make this short and sweet, okay?

I know we're awkward. These past few years have been less than perfect when it comes to maintaining our relationship. 

You haven't been the kindest of months. 

But I'm hopeful this year. The cynicism still rests dormant underneath, mostly from years of disappointments and should-have-beens. But that's past, you know? And I'm ready for new.

So this year, I'll attempt to avoid talking about how this is the fourth time you've come around since we began the adoption process and how despite multiple attempts, my husband and I are still heavy with empty arms. I can't dwell on that any longer. It's too much for the small sliver of hope to carry.

Instead, can we dream about how sweet it will finally be to celebrate Christmas holding a little one close? And hold tight to the belief that maybe-somehow-magically this year will be different? That instead of staring down four years we'll shut the door on three?

The other things you know. The wonder, the enchantment, the mysticism, the quiet and solitude of this season—all of it always seems to brush up against me. We never embrace completely. This year? Well, I just want you to know I'm chasing it. I'm done with the wait, okay? I'll chase after all the wonder and enchantment and belly laughs I can muster. 

You can't stop me. 

There will be friends and warm drinks and late nights and feel-good movies and surprises and laughter—so much laughter—and beauty and hope and Truth. You won't be able to trick me this year. Even when the feelings rise up uninvited—you know the ones—I'll push them away because just because it feels the same doesn't mean it won't be different.

And this year? This year will be different. I'm throwing that flag in the ground and standing with my arms bent across my chest staring you down.

And when winter beckons with her icy fingers, I'm going to rest easy and know that even though the air outside threatens to steal the air out of my lungs there is still strength within for my next breath. I know this know after all of the times you left me out in the dark by myself.

Do you remember?

I used to welcome you with open arms. 
You probably remember me leaving the door wide open for you. 

Are you surprised I'm still opening the door? Me too. Hope does funny things to a heart once she makes herself comfortable. And here's another secret >> 

I'm not afraid of the dark anymore. 

So go ahead and treat me like you've always treated me. I think you may be surprised by the finger I decide to raise. 

The hope inside? She's feisty. And she's lacing up her boots and declaring all sorts of holy ground and no one—not even a month wrought with terrible memories and disappointments—will stand in her way.

This post is inspired by the weekly prompts I give the Story Sessions community. You can join us—there's always more than enough room.