Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 2

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.

Teaser Tuesday - Vol 1

Welcome to Teaser Tuesday, where I will share with you a piece of the WIP I am working on before publication. If you want to catch the entirety of the (rough) draft as I write it, head on over to my Patreon and subscribe for updates. These posts will always be short — maybe a few paragraphs. But the point is to pique your curiosity. 😏 Currently, my WIP is about a stalker, so consider that before reading. I hope you enjoy!

We’re standing by the ocean, the foam washing our feet in a joint baptism, when you tell me  you can’t see me anymore. You give all kinds of excuses: it doesn’t make sense, there’s no more mystery, you aren’t attracted to me — but I know they’re all lies. 

I watch your eyes roam my face with desire. It’s obvious you want me, you’re just fighting innate impulses. I reach my hand out and caress your arm, but you pull away, a snarl on your lips. 

I smile. You’re so feisty when you resist. 

I watch you turn and walk away, studying the buckle of your sandal as you maneuver through the sand back to your car. You didn’t even offer me a ride, but maybe that’s because you haven’t broken up with your boyfriend yet and you don’t want to raise questions. 

I understand. 

I drove here anyway. 

I watch you until you turn invisible behind the sunset and then wipe my face. Fucking tears. I breathe deep and notice a starfish on the sand by my feet. I pick it up, fingering the indentations and grooves. I remember you telling me once that starfish symbolize infinite love...or was it vigilance? Either way, I lift the creature to my lips and give it a kiss before snapping off each arm and throwing it back into the sea. 

If you want to play cat and mouse, Juniper, we can play. 

But you need to know — I always win. 

Capturing Minutiae

Published from previous blog on April 20, 2020

I saw something in an email this week that mentioned our every day documentation during this season. I admit, sometimes I feel as if it’s not readable to post about Jubal climbing our piles of laundry on the couch in our bedroom and playing his iPad while I binge Outer Banks and try to get some words in for the day.

Or like last night, when Russ asked Jubal, “hey buddy you want me to teach you how to play guitar?” And Jubal snuck his way in between Russ’ arms and watched his hands pluck the strings as if it were the most important thing in his world, I snapped a picture but didn’t think about writing it down because this moment feels normal. Every day.

Just like it doesn’t feel significant to talk about the walks Russ and Jubal take every day, canvassing our neighborhood with the dogs, finding leaves that spark their curiosity, because this happens literally every time they’re walking. I forget about the conversations and the silly things Jubal says and only later when Russ and I are alone we look at each other and ask, “what was it that he said today that was so hilarious? Do you remember?

I don’t talk about the recent discovery that our son apparently prefers 1970’s Indie punk above all other musical genres. Or his insatiable need to have his blanket with him everywhere - even while making sandcastles with the dirt outside on our patio.

I don’t talk about the masks we got in the mail today and how now there are two hooks above our keys by the garage door so we won’t forget to grab ours before leaving the house on our weekly errand to the store. I don’t talk about the hand washing, the daily counting of toilet paper rolls, the Vitamin C intake and countless virtual trips to Target and Amazon and nearly any store that will deliver.

I don’t talk about how Jubal now mentions that his school is closed.

I don’t mention this stuff because it doesn’t feel monumental, but I know one day, it will be a welcome treat to read back and remember these days where we were learning so much about each other and our world was changing so exponentially.

The last time this happened, we were stuck on an island in North Carolina, waiting to come home with our new son. Every one then kept telling us to enjoy it — to soak up the time we had together because it would pass quickly and soon we would be wishing for those days of listening to nothing except for the ocean waves crashing against the shore. I believed them because I know myself. I know the atmospheres in which I thrive. And true to form, as we returned to our lives in Austin and the sound of ocean waves became more and more a memory, the ache deepened.

I missed it.

Because of the intensity of those days, I wasn’t able to journal. I couldn’t. There were too many emotions swirling in my brain and mind and all I could manage were small poems haphazardly scribbled in my notebook. Instead, I read. I read so many books.

But I wish I would have found some reservoir in order to write.

So now, as I hear Jubal’s giggles out front and know that any minute they’ll come rushing through the front door with treasures he’s found on yet another daily walk, I try to capture as many moments as possible.

Like yesterday, sitting out on the porch with little lion, I turn and ask if I can take his picture.

“Yeah, mama. You can.”

“Thanks, babe. Can you smile for me?”

“No. I think I just want to look at the clouds.”

And so he did. I’m so glad he chose that instead.

Sundays with Maggie - Vol. 1

Listen to Alaska here. 

And I walked off you,
And I walked off an old me. 

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be able to separate the Elora I was with the one I am becoming. I think about her often — the one who got me here. 

She kept me safe for so long - behind my mother's clothes in her closet where I could smell her scent, behind a smile so I wouldn't be seen as trouble, behind a list of rules so I wouldn't fall into rebellion and sin, behind a fear of expanding into anything other than what was expected of me. 

She wanted nothing more than to just be good. 

And then suddenly, it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. One day I knew from the core of my being that if I checked all of these boxes everything would be nice and neat and perfect and easy I would fit the mold. I would fit. I would belong. But it didn't work. Everything fell apart. The entire story I constructed for myself felt like an ill-fitting jacket, suffocating me.

What was once my lifejacket had become the tightest straight jacket, impaling my senses and leaving me frozen and paralyzed, unable to remember anything about who I was in my core.

Hey now, breathe deep
I'm inhaling.
You and I, there's air in between.
Leave me be, I'm exhaling.
You and I, there's air in between.

The other day my therapist told me, "breathe through this," and it startled me into awareness. I closed my eyes and let my body feel oxygen in every square inch of her and when I released, the tears did too. I had no idea I had forgotten to breathe, but she saw my shoulders clench, my eyes lose focus, my jaw tense. 

Once again, I found myself holding my breath - waiting, anticipating, fearing the next thing to fall away. 

I hold my breath without realizing it. I've done it about two or three times while writing this. Suddenly, my chest constricts and it feels like I can't get enough air in and I can't remember the last time I felt breath fill my lungs and so I have to throw my arms back above my head and reach for the sky while reminding myself how to breathe — in and out, in and out, expand - expand - expand. 

I learned to not breathe by learning to fly under the radar. 

Read the rest by subscribing to my Patreon .

Sundays with Maggie - Vol 1

Listen to Alaska here. 

And I walked off you,
And I walked off an old me. 

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever be able to separate the Elora I was with the one I am becoming. I think about her often — the one who got me here. 

She kept me safe for so long - behind my mother's clothes in her closet where I could smell her scent, behind a smile so I wouldn't be seen as trouble, behind a list of rules so I wouldn't fall into rebellion and sin, behind a fear of expanding into anything other than what was expected of me. 

She wanted nothing more than to just be good. 

And then suddenly, it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. One day I knew from the core of my being that if I checked all of these boxes everything would be nice and neat and perfect and easy I would fit the mold. I would fit. I would belong. But it didn't work. Everything fell apart. The entire story I constructed for myself felt like an ill-fitting jacket, suffocating me.

What was once my lifejacket had become the tightest straight jacket, impaling my senses and leaving me frozen and paralyzed, unable to remember anything about who I was in my core.

Hey now, breathe deep
I'm inhaling.
You and I, there's air in between.
Leave me be, I'm exhaling.
You and I, there's air in between.

The other day my therapist told me, "breathe through this," and it startled me into awareness. I closed my eyes and let my body feel oxygen in every square inch of her and when I released, the tears did too. I had no idea I had forgotten to breathe, but she saw my shoulders clench, my eyes lose focus, my jaw tense. 

Once again, I found myself holding my breath - waiting, anticipating, fearing the next thing to fall away. 

I hold my breath without realizing it. I've done it about two or three times while writing this. Suddenly, my chest constricts and it feels like I can't get enough air in and I can't remember the last time I felt breath fill my lungs and so I have to throw my arms back above my head and reach for the sky while reminding myself how to breathe — in and out, in and out, expand - expand - expand. 

I learned to not breathe by learning to fly under the radar. 

Read the rest by subscribing to my Patreon .

Writing is more than articulation, it's allowing yourself the space to hear the truth that you have something to share. Letters from the Creative Underground is the fuel you need to remember the truth: you are a writer. You have a story. 

And we desperately need to hear it. 

Subscribe

Emails sent every Thursday.

Email Address Sign Up

I won’t ever spam you. That’s lame.

Thank you!

Capturing minutiae.

I saw something in an email this week that mentioned our every day documentation during this season. I admit, sometimes I feel as if it’s not readable to post about Jubal climbing our piles of laundry on the couch in our bedroom and playing his iPad while I binge Outer Banks and try to get some words in for the day.

Or like last night, when Russ asked Jubal, “hey buddy you want me to teach you how to play guitar?” And Jubal snuck his way in between Russ’ arms and watched his hands pluck the strings as if it were the most important thing in his world, I snapped a picture but didn’t think about writing it down because this moment feels normal. Every day.

Just like it doesn’t feel significant to talk about the walks Russ and Jubal take every day, canvassing our neighborhood with the dogs, finding leaves that spark their curiosity, because this happens literally every time they’re walking. I forget about the conversations and the silly things Jubal says and only later when Russ and I are alone we look at each other and ask, “what was it that he said today that was so hilarious? Do you remember?

I don’t talk about the recent discovery that our son apparently prefers 1970’s Indie punk above all other musical genres. Or his insatiable need to have his blanket with him everywhere - even while making sandcastles with the dirt outside on our patio.

I don’t talk about the masks we got in the mail today and how now there are two hooks above our keys by the garage door so we won’t forget to grab ours before leaving the house on our weekly errand to the store. I don’t talk about the hand washing, the daily counting of toilet paper rolls, the Vitamin C intake and countless virtual trips to Target and Amazon and nearly any store that will deliver.

I don’t talk about how Jubal now mentions that his school is closed.

I don’t mention this stuff because it doesn’t feel monumental, but I know one day, it will be a welcome treat to read back and remember these days where we were learning so much about each other and our world was changing so exponentially.

The last time this happened, we were stuck on an island in North Carolina, waiting to come home with our new son. Every one then kept telling us to enjoy it — to soak up the time we had together because it would pass quickly and soon we would be wishing for those days of listening to nothing except for the ocean waves crashing against the shore. I believed them because I know myself. I know the atmospheres in which I thrive. And true to form, as we returned to our lives in Austin and the sound of ocean waves became more and more a memory, the ache deepened.

I missed it.

Because of the intensity of those days, I wasn’t able to journal. I couldn’t. There were too many emotions swirling in my brain and mind and all I could manage were small poems haphazardly scribbled in my notebook. Instead, I read. I read so many books.

But I wish I would have found some reservoir in order to write.

So now, as I hear Jubal’s giggles out front and know that any minute they’ll come rushing through the front door with treasures he’s found on yet another daily walk, I try to capture as many moments as possible.

Like yesterday, sitting out on the porch with little lion, I turn and ask if I can take his picture.

“Yeah, mama. You can.”

“Thanks, babe. Can you smile for me?”

“No. I think I just want to look at the clouds.”

And so he did. I’m so glad he chose that instead.

Stay drunk.

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”

— Ray Bradbury

When I was a girl, I created a secret code for my journals.

The key was in the back, so anyone could have figured out the code anyway, but what it offered me was protection and a realization.

What I put in here — on these pages — is safe.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve created worlds inside my head. I wrote stories of how I wish life would go as a way to connect the discrepancies and paint a more beautiful future.

I am my best when I am both consuming and creating story because it separates me from the chaos outside. If I look up from the page for any amount of time, the voices quickly begin to distract and it’s takes a bit for me to find that inner compass again. Is it any wonder? The onslaught is tedious and never-ending. It’s like our own hell-scape full of Denham’s Dentrifice and creative sieves.

And yet, I am sitting here in my office, staring at the computer screen, terrified at the words beginning to bubble underneath the surface.

//

The last time I attempted to write a full-length anything, it was April.

Jubal was barely walking and napped twice a day. I got 18,000 words into that particular manuscript before life blew up in my face and I couldn’t find a glimpse of happiness in what was once a life line. My inspiration sputtered and halted all-together when stress took over. Hindsight is 20/20 — when this happened, I wish someone would have sat me down and said, “hey love. Why don’t you take a day to rest. Read. Refresh. Remember.”

Instead, I closed my computer and placed it in the office closet and started binge watching Netflix in a season where journaling and getting that shit out of me would have been so much more productive than sobbing every night on my way home from work.

What happened next happened slowly and then all at once: I got quiet. I stopped writing. I stopped creating.

I allowed reality to effectively destroy what pulsed in my veins.

//

As with all of time, reflection and realization comes in waves.

I walk down the hall at work to grab some lunch and a thought passes by while I scroll through my to-do list in the afternoon: I miss writing.

I look for a picture on my phone and in trying to locate it, stumble on a spread in my art journal that had my heart racing when I created it. I take a deep breath, I miss creating.

I sit down at my desk and stretch my neck and my eyes catch the corner of my white board where I am tracking the word count of my latest manuscript. The last date says May 4.

That was in 2018.

I rest my head against the back of my chair and stare at the date for a while before nodding to myself and opening up a document on my computer. I feel drunk with excitement and trepidation.

I hear you, I say to the characters in my brain. Now let’s have some fun.

Goal: stay drunk.

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”

— Ray Bradbury

When I was a girl, I created a secret code for my journals.

The key was in the back, so anyone could have figured out the code anyway, but what it offered me was protection and a realization.

What I put in here — on these pages — is safe.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve created worlds inside my head. I wrote stories of how I wish life would go as a way to connect the discrepancies and paint a more beautiful future.

I am my best when I am both consuming and creating story because it separates me from the chaos outside. If I look up from the page for any amount of time, the voices quickly begin to distract and it’s takes a bit for me to find that inner compass again. Is it any wonder? The onslaught is tedious and never-ending. It’s like our own hell-scape full of Denham’s Dentrifice and creative sieves.

And yet, I am sitting here in my office, staring at the computer screen, terrified at the words beginning to bubble underneath the surface.

//

The last time I attempted to write a full-length anything, it was April.

Jubal was barely walking and napped twice a day. I got 18,000 words into that particular manuscript before life blew up in my face and I couldn’t find a glimpse of happiness in what was once a life line. My inspiration sputtered and halted all-together when stress took over. Hindsight is 20/20 — when this happened, I wish someone would have sat me down and said, “hey love. Why don’t you take a day to rest. Read. Refresh. Remember.”

Instead, I closed my computer and placed it in the office closet and started binge watching Netflix in a season where journaling and getting that shit out of me would have been so much more productive than sobbing every night on my way home from work.

What happened next happened slowly and then all at once: I got quiet. I stopped writing. I stopped creating.

I allowed reality to effectively destroy what pulsed in my veins.

//

As with all of time, reflection and realization comes in waves.

I walk down the hall at work to grab some lunch and a thought passes by while I scroll through my to-do list in the afternoon: I miss writing.

I look for a picture on my phone and in trying to locate it, stumble on a spread in my art journal that had my heart racing when I created it. I take a deep breath, I miss creating.

I sit down at my desk and stretch my neck and my eyes catch the corner of my white board where I am tracking the word count of my latest manuscript. The last date says May 4.

That was in 2018.

I rest my head against the back of my chair and stare at the date for a while before nodding to myself and opening up a document on my computer. I feel drunk with excitement and trepidation.

I hear you, I say to the characters in my brain. Now let’s have some fun.

Remembering.

It was at a bar in downtown Austin where I came up with the idea.

Before I could stop myself, I grabbed my iPhone and pulled up Safari. Jazz musicians serenaded us and Russ leaned over, peering over my neck.

“What are you doing, love?”

I pulled up Hostmonster and glanced his way before walking through the steps.

“I’m….I’m buying a domain real quick.”

It took a moment for the idea to land in my chest.
Five minutes to purchase the domain.
And almost a decade to remember.

//

For the rest of the night, I enjoyed the atmosphere but couldn’t stop thinking of the idea. I’d never felt this level of inspiration, how it turns your veins into electric currents. My focus was clear. I knew where I was going.

//

The next few months, I unveiled my project. A friend joined me for a few months and we set up a blog and developed a rhythm and sent out a total of one newsletter before the focus shifted and I found myself restructuring.

I launched an eCourse.

The idea that formed in the back corner of a smoky bar was beginning to morph into something new.

//

I want to pause here and give the very real explanation that sometimes, our ideas grow. Sometimes, the seedlings turn into life that is all-together different than we initially imagined. And this is okay.

Sometimes though, the idea is not what’s changing.
It’s us changing the idea.

//

Over the next few years, I would listen to others instead of myself on what would come next. I grew a community I loved, and felt intense purpose for the first time in my life, but completely forgot about where it began — that small idea that was merely a speck in the bottom of my gut.

Every once in a while it would resurface like a lost memory.

I bet that would really work, I thought. And then just as quickly as it came, it would disappear. I would second guess myself and get lost in the what-ifs. Namely: I really think this is going to work, but what if it failed?

Read: what if I failed?

Then it wasn’t the fear of failing that kept from starting, because I just kept failing. It was the debilitating feeling of being able to get nothing off of the ground.

So I stopped.
I disappeared.

This was so much easier than dealing with the fallout of judgment and criticism.

//

Here’s a secret: I finally gave in to the idea.

Back in November, I told myself it was time to just fucking launch it already. But having launched from my hip with countless offerings, I demanded time.

I made the commitment to launch in 2020. I started building timelines and a plan and even worked on some graphics. I was excited. Ready. I watched the calendar wind down as my inspiration slowly grew.

It was finally happening.

And then January 1, I got sick.
Two weeks later, Russ got sick.
And then Jubal got sick.
And then I got a new role at work.
And then the entire world stopped.

It just got too difficult to carry one more thing. Too full of grief.

Despite all of this, a question kept circling back and rooting itself in my bones: yes, all of this is true. But who are you? And what is it that you were created to do?

I am remembering.

I am taking a breath and starting again.

The productivity of motherhood

The exhaustion is so real.

Every morning, before the sun has even broken the horizon, Jubal shuffles into our room and climbs on to our bed. I’m closest to the door, so I’m the one with knobby knees and elbows digging into my legs, my thighs, my ribs.

I forget what it’s like to wake up leisurely.

We come into the living room where I collapse into a sofa and find myself scrolling Instagram or Facebook. Some days are good. Some days I read.

This morning was a scrolling day.

//

It’s hard to carry the amount of conflicting emotions right now.

Frustration.
Worry.
Gratefulness.
Grief.
Excitement.
Anger.
(so much anger)
Love.

And yet, here I am, fully human. Both grateful that my family is healthy and desperately, desperately wishing for a break.

- while also -

Caring for the range of emotions of my son who is also experiencing them at lightning speed.

I love him for it.
I won’t ever begrudge him for it.

//

There’s a pervasive thought though that I can’t ignore.

It’s that this phenomenon is primarily matriarchal.

I can’t remember the last time I had a complete thought. Where I was able to think of something, follow the trail, and finish out the supposition. I’m in a constant state of interruption. Every single one of my meetings has been interrupted. Last week, Jubal ate lotion and shit on the toilet while I was in a meeting with my site leadership. I put myself on mute, turned off my camera, and set the computer on the arm of our couch while I cleaned my son’s face and his butt and the toilet seat. Both congratulating him for pooping as well as reminding him that lotion is not for eating.

The entire time, I had one ear trained toward what others were saying, desperately praying for them to not call my name to give a status update. I sat back down at the kitchen table, where I land during the day to keep an eye on Jubal, and cried for the remainder of the meeting, willing my heart to slow her pace.

It’s not okay, I kept whispering. I know. It’s not okay. I’m sorry.

//

If it’s not physical, it’s mental. The thoughts are constant and unrelenting.

What is Jubal doing?
I need to help him with this curriculum.
Does he need to use the bathroom?
How can I focus more?
I wonder if Jubal will paint with me.
How long are we going to be at home?
What activity is Jubal supposed to be doing this week?
Is it too early for a drink?
How can I mother him well during this chaos?
How can I be a better partner to Russ?
I need to do a dance class.
I need to read more.
I need to write.
I need sleep.

All day long, it’s the longest sort of script. And yet, there are those on social media who have the privilege of saying, “you don’t have to be productive right now!”

None of these people are mothers.

I wonder what it’s like to not live with that type of pressure.

//

I’ve been up for two hours already. It’s not even 7am. I escaped into the office to get my thoughts down, but about five minutes ago, Jubal started to whine about needing water and being bored with what is on TV. Russ is stirring in our room, waking up to his day.

I hear the shuffle of tiny feet. I pull him up into my lap and kiss his forehead and promise I’ll be out in just a minute.

“Can I have your special rock, mama?”

I give it to him, reminding myself to find it later. I turn back to my words, but realize there’s nothing left.

The day has officially begun.