Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 24

it's time :: a new movement for our generation

I know I'm in the middle of a series as well as a blog sabbatical, and those things are still happening. But. Some things are just worth the breaking point in time, you know? So. Two posts in one day, and a minor interruption for a big! huge! announcement. 

A few months ago, I hosted the first Story101 retreat off in the hill country of Texas. You may remember my post about breaking in the marching boots—about the women marching together not in order to fight something but to fight for each other. This is what I want to be about, because we all feed the river. 

A few weeks later, I got an email. 

It was one that shook me to my core. One that sent a resounding yes! to the deepest places. It spoke of a dream to gather, equip and unleash the women of this generation to live out their purpose. 

(I get chills still when I type it.) 

Let me tell you: this dream is crazy. But it's the crazy ones that capture my heart, and it's the impossible ones that point me to Jesus. And the leadership behind this vision is bold, energetic and lion hearted. 

And we're gathering in February.  

if:gathering

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A fresh, deep, honest space for a new generation of women to wrestle with the essential question: IF God is real… THEN what? This 2-day conference brings women together and wrestles out how to live out the calling God has placed on our lives.            //Austin, TX Feb. 7–8 2014

I know some of you may be shying away because it's another conference. For women. You know this track. You've done it before. Can I just whisper in your ear for a second? This is different. I mean, I'm a tattooed coffee addict when I'm not drinking French 74's who leans toward colorful language more often than not and I'm so excited about this. I'm serious. For the past few months I've been so cynical about everything that relates to church-y stuff and when this came into my inbox, my heart felt at rest. 

This is about friends gathering together, sharing their stories, and trying to dig deep in what it means to follow this purpose burning within our souls. Mark the date on your calendar and make sure to sign up for updates?

I'd love to meet you and hear what makes this heart of yours race with vision.

Oh and get this. Today, when everything went live, you want to know what they posted on their Facebook page? 

 

“This is a vision that actually requires an army. We don’t just want you to attend- we want you to lock arms.”

— IF:gathering

This is bigger than any of us. It's time to break in those marching boots. Join us?  

Want to hear more from others? Check out these posts for more info -- 

Jennie Allen
  Lindsey Nobles
  Jen Hatmaker
  Sarah Markley
  Lore Ferguson
Emily Freeman
  Sarah Bessey
  Raechel Myers
  Jessica Honneger
  Melissa Greene

knowing your muse :: whenever & wherever

Editor's Note: during the month of June, members of my Story Sessions community will be posting about what it means to pursue dreams, engage in self-care and practice active boundaries. They had free reign on what they wrote, and the topics come from my 30 Days of Prompts. I'm so excited about the wisdom these ladies will share with you, and I know you'll be inspired.

xoxo,

Elora Nicole

 //

Growing up, my muse was books.

I loved to read, devouring every book I could get my hands on. I would check out piles of books from the library, reading every one.  I loved the stories, being able to travel wherever and whenever I wanted.  Little House on the Prairie, American Girl, Dear America Diaries, (can you tell, I like history?) and more: reading and books inspired nearly everything I did.  I wanted to live like the characters, learn more about the history behind certain books, tell my friends and family everything I'd learned from reading, and then just read more books.  

Even in high school, when typical teens wanted to go out and party, I was the nerdy homeschooler who just wanted to read more.  My reading made me who I am, showing me characters I should emulate AND characters from whom I should learn how not to behave. Through my reading, I satisfied my quest to know more and learn more.

I still read in college, but social life and homework nudged reading off the pedestal of important priorities in my life. The habit was still there, it just wasn't as strong as it was when I could devote every spare moment for reading the next book in my stack of to-reads.  Then I graduated, and started a job at the nonprofit Christian ministry I still work at today. That full-time job was physically, emotionally, and spiritually demanding. It was wonderful, but it was demanding. I also tried to do full-time graduate school at the same time. That was not one of my better decisions. I was exhausted, drained, worn out. 

I wanted to read, to be inspired by something outside of work and class. But as soon as I pulled out a new book, I couldn't muster up the energy and just fell asleep.  Instead of books, though, I started turning to my new friend Netflix. I started falling in love with the stories of TV shows, of Bones, Castle, 30 Rock, Doctor Who, Battlestar Galactica, and more. I felt guilty "wasting my time watching TV." But the more good shows I watched, the more I realized how fascinating these stories are, even if they're "just" TV shows. I began to love watching TV shows, getting to know the characters, getting caught up in new stories: ways so similar to my love of books. I realized, they're not the same, reading and watching. But they're more alike than I previously thought.

When my life changed, my muse had to change, at least in form.

I will always love reading, but I'm learning that I love story more, in any of its forms. Whether it's a fabulous TV show, a beautiful song, or an amazing book, it's the story that counts. I need stories in whatever form they come to inspire me, to entertain me, to teach me. I'm still falling in love with books like The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks or Brain on Fire or A Year of Biblical Womanhood. But I'm also falling in love with shows like Chuck, the West Wing, and Parks and Recreation.  Whether I'm reading or watching, I still can travel wherever and whenever.

 //

Sarah is on an adventure figuring out who God wants her to be and what story He wants her to write.  She loves to read, watch shows like Chuck and Doctor Who, and be with people she loves. 

 

knowing your muse :: the process

Editor's Note: during the month of June, members of my Story Sessions community will be posting about what it means to pursue dreams, engage in self-care and practice active boundaries. They had free reign on what they wrote, and the topics come from my 30 Days of Prompts. I'm so excited about the wisdom these ladies will share with you, and I know you'll be inspired.

xoxo,

Elora Nicole

  // 

I believe that I have a muse, and that she lives in the shower.

I fear that what I have just written may put me firmly in the category of those who are utterly insane, or those who are arrogant enough to believe the world should be hanging on their every word. Or - more simply - 'writer', which is a combination of the two. 

Let me tell you about my creative process. 

I am, ordinarily, a rather organised and systematic person. Thoughts strike me as I am reading or chatting, and I note them down in my iPod touch as I get them, creating a comfortingly long list of ideas for blog posts. This is not my muse: this is me being organised, hoarding the ideas for a rainy day. 

On a typical day, I start my writing as all true writers do: by spending half an hour on Twitter, entering into spurious theological arguments and reading people whose writing is so intimidatingly good I feel I have nothing in me worth saying. 

I then look at the list of rainy-day ideas, and contemplate them. I can sit there, then, for hours - but my muse will not be caught: I am Peter Pan chasing after his shadow, spilling thimbles and dogs in the process. I end up lying in bed with my iPad, staring at a blank screen: a disconsolate sprite, attempting to attach my shadow to my foot with a bar of soap. I cannot write then. It just doesn't work. 

So I store up two or three ideas and walk into the bathroom. I tell myself that I don't have to write today; I shall just see what comes when I am not looking. 

*****

I don't know what it is about the shower. I suppose other people find it in coffee shops or going on a walk - any activity where you are not using much brain or physical energy, and you go into automatic pilot. I will scrub my hair, and idly consider the two or three ideas. No pressure. 

I switch the water on. I wait, like a small child, crouching in the grass with a piece of bread. I am not looking at the bird, I am not watching as it hops nearer. If it sees me looking, it will fly off. I will scrub my hair and feel the ideas, and see what emotion bubbles up. Just as soon as I feel something strongly, I know what it is I need to write about today. It is no matter if everyone is talking about that thing that the mega-church leader said - unless that's what I am feeling deep in my bones that day, I should not write it. 

Today, I am pondering the goodness of God. It's just the wisp of an idea, and I don't know what it means, so I rinse my hair through with water. I sit, holding out the crumb. 

I see the glass steam up and I think about my Facebook feed. People share answers to prayer - and they end it with 'God is good'. I do this too - sometimes it's because I feel the need to be a bit more spiritual instead of just saying, 'this cool thing happened to me'. It's good to thank God. 

I squeeze the shampoo onto my hand and rub it into my hair - where was I? God is good because He answers prayer. 

Hang on a minute- God is good because He answers prayer? Does this mean His goodness is contingent on our answered prayer? That doesn't sound right.  I rinse out the water, enjoying the warmth and the feeling of timelessness and relaxation that comes from standing in a cubicle with nothing to do except wash myself.

I shampoo my hair again, and consider the implications. Is our 'social media shorthand' limiting the way we see God? So often my prayer life consists of: 'thank you God for the good stuff in my life', and 'God - there's some bad stuff/inconvenient stuff in my life - please sort it out.' My Facebook feed shows the same pattern. We say: 'the sun is shining - God is good.' But what would it take for us to say, 'it's raining and miserable - God is good'? 

I reach for the shampoo, feeling like I am on the cusp of something, like the bird is very near now - oh wait, did I already shampoo it? (This is the unfortunate side effect of having Important Thoughts in the shower - I cannot for the life of me recall how many times I have shampooed my hair. It may be once, it may be five times - there's no way of telling). 

I put down the shampoo, reach for the conditioner.

I realise the real question is this: what would it mean for me, Tanya Marlow, to be able to say, 'I am severely ill and housebound with severe M.E. - God is good'? I stand in the shower, the hot water trickling down my body, but there's suddenly a heat from within, and the emotion bubbles up from nowhere, and suddenly I am not asking that question but feeling it, feeling the cost and the pain of even asking it, my stomach tensing, eyes prickling with tears. This is what I need to write about today. I cannot write anything else until I have written this. 

*****

I rinse my hair, step out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel and nod my thanks to the muse. My face is flushed, and I know that I have to start writing now, while my body is still warm, otherwise it won't get done. If I so much as open Twitter, I am sunk.

I switch on my iPad and consider this: my best ideas only come when I am in the shower. If I lived my whole life in a hot tub I would be a certified GENIUS.

// 

Tanya Marlow was in Christian ministry for a decade and a lecturer in Biblical Theology. Now she reads Bible stories to her toddler as she learns what it means to be a mum who is housebound with an autoimmune illness. She blogs at Thorns and Gold (http://tanyamarlow.com) on the Bible, suffering, and the messy edges of life. Follow Tanya on Twitter @Tanya_Marlow or like her Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/TanyaMarlowThornsAndGold)

knowing your muse :: the girl in a wind box

Editor's Note: during the month of June, members of my Story Sessions community will be posting about what it means to pursue dreams, engage in self-care and practice active boundaries. They had free reign on what they wrote, and the topics come from my 30 Days of Prompts. I'm so excited about the wisdom these ladies will share with you, and I know you'll be inspired.

xoxo,

Elora Nicole

 // 

Artists are wild women - willing to brave inescapable adventure.

Some men trek around the world to discover their courage.

Some find it at home between their two ears. 

Artists find adventure in their bathroom and discover their courage with every new thought.  They go on safari in a beige living room at 7am. They hike in the Himalayas while sitting in bed next to a sick child. Artists fight bears, climb cliffs, go to the playoffs in overtime, every single day - all within their minds. 

Please understand, I do not mean they make up these types of stories. To be terribly clear, they live these realities and terrors and struggles and triumphs within their psyches and through the experience of creating their art. 

Other human beings can turn off their minds, go buy donut holes and have a nice numb day. Artists, as so many of us in this community are, must turn around and face the beasts - slay them - every single minute of every single day. 

Fight or flight choices all-day-long.

If your muse – the one who brings the wild wonder and the call to danger into your life - is anything like mine, she does not enjoy being categorized or limited. To lock her in is a crime. She is fierce and untamable.  

A muse is a wild thing. A hard thing. A loving thing. A soft thing. A brilliant, brighter-than-the-sun lover.  She is Spirit. Ruach. Breath. Wind. 

So... With fear and trembling, I attempt to paint one type of experience with the muse –

The Wind Box. 

_____

Thrill

I step in and close the door. Take three more steps in. Turn counter-clockwise to force my face to the front and to the audience. Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Head up. I don't know where to look. Just look straight ahead. Relax your face. Relax. You can't do this if you tense up. Breathe. 

I jump a little to loosen tight muscles. Tips of toes and down. Tips of toes and down. A nervous smile creeps into the muscles next to my mouth - pulling a smile onto my face. Pulling it like a satin sheet off a bed... off a girl on a bed. 

Okay, now I feel exposed. I'm too nervous. My mind is wandering. I can't do this. Alone in a box.  I wish I was really alone, but the audience is watching. Skin pricks and tingles. It's starting. Any second. 

I hear the motor kick on before I see the effects. A whirring vibration covers me, like being underwater but remaining completely dry. The sensation is so strong, I expect my arms to feel heavy with the weight of the invisible water surrounding me. I lift them, just to see, and they move freely in the air. Shake it out.  Shoulders and biceps flex. Ready. One last look through the glass, out to the audience.  I smile for real.  It’s my turn.

whoosh. thousands. 

there must be thousands in the wind. 

Flitting. Twisting. Flying. Brushing my face, my arms, my fingers. Coaxing me to action and back to life.  Thousands fly around me in my own private wind box. All my treasure!

Was I ever alive before this? Before I stepped into the wind box, was I really alive?

My head whips and my eyes dart, connecting their will to my hands. I grab the little objects flying around me; as many as possible. In the back of my mind, I know there is a time limit. A giant countdown clock reminds me to hurry. This won't last forever. You only have a short time to get all you can. Make the most of it. Hurry!

I grab and I stuff. Filling my pockets. Filling my bra. Using my skirt like a child at a park or a mother from the prairie - my skirts full of the things I need. 

As many as I can touch, I grab. I don't even look at them anymore. My hands open and close, hoping to lock down on something, anything but air. My eyes try to help, they try to look around this windy box as fast as possible, but blind hands move on their own too. The will of eyes cannot travel down to fingers before the flying objects change their locations. 

The wind takes them on random, wild paths. They are wild things. 

It is not money that flies around this game show wind box with me, but the most precious objects in existence: Creative Sparks. Ideas. Words. Worlds. 

_______

Panic.

They are so precious, more precious than money, the ideas, and I don’t have enough. I need to grab more.  Please, wind, help me!

Overflowing hands drop more than they hold.  Somewhere along the way, my skirt falls loose and everything escapes back to the air. How did this happen? I stuck some words in my bra, a few in my pockets, but they are not enough. This is my chance to claim creative worlds as my own and I’m blowing it.    

Fool. Incompetent fool. Time is running out.

The countdown clock looms large. The audience sneers out “10, 9, 8...” All the voices yelling. 

The panicked temptation to stuff every crack and crevice with the flying worlds is immense. As many as possible, get as many as possible. Time is almost up!

_______

Focus

A shortness of breath from deep in my lungs burns and I gasp. Sharp. 

And I am smacked. Smacked so hard I get angry. With a sweaty palm I reach up to grab the insultingly violent little bugger now stuck to my cheek, and my eyes focus on him. It feels good to focus so intently on one thing after the furious, blind collection of the last few moments.

Eyes focus hard. Wind still blows. Words and worlds dart around me, but I keep my eyes on just this one. Hold it gently, firmly, in one hand, and with the other, I trace. Anger turns to curiosity as I trace the paths and lines, exploring the life in this wild, little world. 

When my fingers and eyes and heart have fully soaked in the beauty and grandeur of this one, rather than stuffing it into my pocket, I release it back into the air.  Free.  

Plucking another, I hear the countdown, “10,9,8…”

Just one more. And I take one more in my palm and begin to really look.  

One at a time - Catch and release.

Instead of panicked pocket-stuffing, I enjoy peaceful exploration of each one.

In the back of my mind, I hear the countdown again, “10, 9, 8…” and a laugh bubbles up in my gut that pulls me to the floor as giggles pop out. 

The countdown clock is an illusion, an empty threat. “10,9,8…”   

The clock will always be near its end. The audience will always cheer and sneer. But, the truth is, I actually have all the time in eternity to explore every idea as it flies by.

And at that moment, I set them all free.  

Pulling every last idea and word from every dark pocket, I release them into the air where they belong – trusting the wind will bring me the next right world to explore.

Knowing your muse…

A muse is a wild thing. A hard thing. A loving thing. A soft thing. A brilliant, brighter-than-the-sun lover.  She is Wind. Ruach. Breath. Spirit  – the Spirit of the Great Creator.

Every day that I am brave enough to step back into my wind box, meaning the place I am a Creator, is an adventure. Facing the monsters and liars between my own ears takes more courage than I can gather some days. 

And some days, the inspirations – actually, no, not the inspirations… the feelings of competition and scarcity come so fast and furious, and the liar in my head sounds so smooth and believable that I panic. Each idea looks better than the next. Quantity becomes paramount.  I never actually create, I just procure more pieces. And the imaginary countdown clock in my head fills my heart with dread that I’m too slow and I’m too late. 

But, when I pick up just one world at a time, everything changes. When I let the wind bring me just the right idea to explore, I feel safe.  I realize that I have all the time in eternity to create.

Knowing your muse is complex and beautiful, and for today, my friends, when you bravely step into your wind box, pick one tiny world and explore it completely. Let it grow big and important with your help, and then let it fly free. Trust that another one will come along, just as beautiful as the first. Trust that there is time. Trust that you are not alone in feeling crazy or panicked, inspired or powerful.

This girl in a wind box, with my hair flying everywhere and a great big smile on my face is waving to you and cheering you on.

  //

Nicole Romero is a peacemaker, in the old way. She teaches, pastors, writes and creates in order to make connections - to tie one thing to another to another until it all makes sense in a fresh, rewarding new way. Shalom and true joy. Blogging about connections atwww.1000strands.com. Pastoring creatives at www.thecrossing.com. Look her up anytime. She likes friends: @nicoletteromero on all the stuff.

  

knowing your boundaries :: freedom is waiting

Editor's Note: during the month of June, members of my Story Sessions community will be posting about what it means to pursue dreams, engage in self-care and practice active boundaries. They had free reign on what they wrote, and the topics come from my 30 Days of Prompts. I'm so excited about the wisdom these ladies will share with you, and I know you'll be inspired. Note - today's post may hold trigger warnings for physical and emotional abuse. Proceed with caution if those upset you.

xoxo,

Elora Nicole

//

I didn't always know what boundaries were.

 Not the relational kind, anyway.  Up until a few years ago, if I ever used the phrase "personal space," it was only to be ironic.

Probably because I didn't know what personal space was.  Probably because, in the house I grew up in, there were no boundaries.

Instead, my entire life lay open to my parents.  The kind of enforced openness that violates.  Nothing was sacred.  Nothing was my own.

In that house, a closed door meant nothing.  On more than one occasion, my parents threatened to remove the door entirely from my room. 

A differing opinion was a betrayal.

As a child, I told my father that I did not believe he was telling the truth about a certain situation and received a palm cracking across my cheek. 

I was taught to ignore my emotions, and any expression of independence was severely squashed.  The result was that I was unable to think for myself, unable to dream.  To have my own identity was a sin.

My achievements were only valued in how they made my parents appear.  My purpose in life, it was made clear, was to be quiet and to make them feel good about themselves. Whenever I stumbled, I paid for the embarrassment it cost them. 

My mother thought my father loved me too much, with a wrong kind of love.  She envied me.  I only wished to be left alone, to be given a space that I was denied.

My body was not respected.  Together, my parents regularly pushed, punched, slapped, and kicked me around my bedroom at night.  At the end of the ordeal, nearly every surface, shelf, and drawer would have been emptied onto the floor, and I would shiver in the dark amidst the mess that I was not allowed to clean up.  Tough love, my father called it.

And I believed him, believed them both. 

I believed that it was okay for these two people to treat me in this way.

I thought that I deserved it.  I thought that if anyone was in the wrong, it was me.

I thought that I was bad.  I thought I was a problem.  The problem.

I won't pretend -- sharing these ugly details of my growing up time scares me.  I tremble at what it might mean to shed light on these too dark years.

But I share it anyway in the hope that maybe the one who needs to will recognize her story in my own and feel that powerful, healing knowing begin to reverberate strength back into her brittled bones -- the truth that she is not alone.

And if that is you, you must also know that it is not okay for you to be treated like this.  It is not okay to have your identity, your very self, eaten up to ease another person's insecurity or pain or brokenness. 

It is not okay if your body or your belongings are regularly mistreated.

It is not okay if your ears are constantly filled with only the wrong sort of words.

It is not okay if you are unable to have your own opinions or thoughts or feelings or plans or dreams.

No matter what they or he or she may tell you, this is not normal, not healthy.

And, if this is your story, if this is or was your truth . . . you need to know that you are not bad.  You are not a problem, or the problem.  It is not your fault.  You deserved better.

There is a term for a family without boundaries, a family in which the self is suffocated and a single identity is meant to fit more than one individual -- enmeshed.

Boundaries are an impossibility in an enmeshed relationship.  And when boundaries are missing, growth and personhood and hope die, and are too easily replaced by depression and despair and disease. 

But if this is your story . . . this does not have to be where it ends. 

You can find freedom.  You can find hope.  You can still find the person who you were forced to stop becoming. 

You can.  You can, sweet one.

I am.  The progress toward my self and the healing from my boundary-less childhood has been a slow and difficult march, but my heart is being transformed.  The One Who Wants To is repaying me for the years that the locusts have eaten.  While that does not make the deficit I experienced hurt any less, it does give the hurt meaning, and that in turn lends me strength and returns my hope.

I am healing.  Let us heal together, friends.

So shout your rebellious words.  Launch upon your own adventure.  Experiment, create, as much as possible.  Recruit a therapist that you love, if you can.  Feel all of the feelings, even the hard ones.  Express with abandon.  Let loose your tied down hair and let the wind style it wild.  And please, please, if you can and as you can, tell your story, too. 

Freedom is waiting. 

//

Beth is a wife, mama, artist, writer, stillbirth survivor, recovery warrior, photographer, dog wrangler, word devourer, & Jesus lover (not necessarily in that order), writing about finding beauty and truth among the thorny tangles of life at www.bethmorey.com. She is the artist behind Epiphany Art Studio, where she creates healing mixed media artwork (www.epiphanyartstudio.etsy.com).  

knowing your boundaries :: knowing yourself

Editor's Note: during the month of June, members of my Story Sessions community will be posting about what it means to pursue dreams, engage in self-care and practice active boundaries. They had free reign on what they wrote, and the topics come from my 30 Days of Prompts. I'm so excited about the wisdom these ladies will share with you, and I know you'll be inspired.

xoxo,

Elora Nicole   

// 

What do you believe about yourself? 

What messages and treatments are you willing to accept from people?  Because when you figure that out, you will be well on your way to knowing your boundaries.

As a general rule, you are under no obligation to anyone.  You don't owe anyone anything.

Now, of course, if you apply this in a selfish way, you'll be an ass.  But practicing this in a healthy way can bring you freedom.

You have to know yourself to know whether you are being selfish or healthy.  Yes, boundaries are the fences and gates to protect your land.  But they are also shields that protect from attacks.

Is it selfish of me to not ask my mom many questions about her life, job, or marriage?  Maybe.  But if I do, I know I'm walking onto soil littered with landmines and I don't know when I'll step on a live one.  I have to be ok with being perceived as selfish or uncaring because I am trying to heal.  But limiting my contact doesn't mean I don't try to honor and respect her.  I find safe and healthy ways to communicate.  Only you can decide if your decisions are truly coming from a place of selfishness or healthiness.

What do you feel you owe people?  What are you willing to give up for them?  

I watched this scene from Kitchen Nightmares and saw this girl putting up with abusive language, and apologizing for 'causing' it.  Boundary issues!!!  I would guess she probably feels she owes everyone a listening ear and a deference to authority above herself, which isn't healthy.

We instinctively know when things are being done to us that are wrong.  We just don't always know what to do about it, or that we can do something about it.  Knowing your boundaries empowers you.

I keep seeing the face of that girl - crying and apologizing.  Why?  Because she doesn't want to lose her job?  Or is it deeper than that?  Did her tears stem from her identity and the harm being done to it?  Her tears were indicative that something was wrong.  She needs to listen to them and stand up for herself.  She has every right to walk out and not allow herself to be talked to like that.

But on the flip side, we can't avoid everything.  Which is why it's important to know, what are you willing to put up with?  Because if you protect yourself from everything unpleasant and harmful, you may only be barricading yourself.

Boundaries are healthy.  But you have to know what they are, why you have them, and live with the awareness that people and life are messy.

If I'm not willing to have any unpleasantness in my life, I'm not going to be a very nice person to be around.  Boundaries don't mean doing what I always want to do.  But they give me a way to ask 'is this healthy'.  Sometimes truth needs to be said, and it's hard and scary.  But shaking nerves doesn't necessarily equal unhealthy.

Knowing your boundaries means you can ask if you are responding out of fear.  If you are, why?  What do you fear?  Why are you giving in?  What do you feel you owe this person that is more important than your well-being?

If you know who you are, then you can decide when to sacrifice for someone without being a doormat.  If you know that someone's attitude towards you doesn't determine your worth, then you can better withstand the careless words people fling at you, and you will know when the line has been crossed and you need to leave.

Years ago I would have been that waitress, crying and apologizing, because it was my job to not make my authorities angry.

But now I know all of that rage and hysteria absolutely says more about the angry person than the belittled one.  Setting boundaries is still a nerve-wracking experience for me.  But being able to identify what I need and why is an important step in being able to claim them.

// 

Caris Adel is passionate about loving people, defending the oppressed, and being a voice for justice.  She’s been married for 11 years, and with 5 kids, somehow finds the time to write about affirming the humanity at  www.carisadel.com .

 

knowing your boundaries :: love that does no harm

Editor's Note: during the month of June, members of my Story Sessions community will be posting about what it means to pursue dreams, engage in self-care and practice active boundaries. They had free reign on what they wrote, and the topics come from my 30 Days of Prompts. I'm so excited about the wisdom these ladies will share with you, and I know you'll be inspired.

xoxo,

Elora Nicole  

We always know. 

We know the boundaries of our personal comfort zones. We know which situations and which people {and types of people} create a fight or flight response within us. When our sympathetic nervous system sounds an alarm, adrenaline courses and our entire being goes into full alert. In that moment ... we know.

But leave? "Oh, that wouldn't be polite."

Respond in a way that protects us from harm — insult or injury? Oh, someone may be offended or even hurt if we walked {ran} away from the situation that cued our internal {self-protective} warning light to flash bright red. So, we remain. We find ourselves almost paralyzed to react or even to respond in the midst of the situation.

We dam the flow of our spirit and emotions alerting us to exit.

Unsure of an alternative response, we react from our default mode. We do what we know, that which we have been taught with words and actions and outcomes. Because we love — deeply and without conditions. And often that love — that raw, authentic element of self — is misused {abused} as a weapon against us.

Love is the most frequently misused term {and emotion}.

A love that does no harm enraptures us in liberty and empowerment, comfort and safety. It needs no bounds because it is boundless, it penetrates the soul with everything righteous and healing. As the givers of such love — as conduits of unadulterated affection — we are often unaware we also have the authority to create personal boundaries.

We are readily told about love and forgiveness. But we are not routinely told about boundaries — our God-given right to choose and to decide what we need, what is safe for us. Within religious circles we are told that forgiveness looks friendly and open, a smiling face and a gracious presence — a pretentious state denying persecution and abuse ever happened.

"Let's not make this a big deal." ... "It's over now." ... "We can't live in the past."

Forgiveness does not ensure reconciliation — and certainly not the right to ease of circumstances for the offender-abuser. The details of reconciliation are defined by the wronged and abused. Because it will never be possible to be in the same room with the person who slandered or abused us without varying degrees of intense discomfort.

That reality does not reflect a lack of forgiveness. It means we suffered without cause, and we learned to distance ourselves from the offender-abuser. Forgiveness means we severed ties with the behavior or incident. It means we liberated ourselves from the grip of the suffering and sins committed against us — and promised ourselves to release the injustice of it to God.

Forgiveness is an act of our will and rarely confirmed by our emotions.

Reconciliation is not a condition or guaranteed outcome of forgiveness.  It can only occur after the offender has repented {admitted the harm against us, changed course, proven a willingness to change} — and is a result of mutual effort {commitment, investment of time and energy}. It means the offender assumes 100% of the responsibility for his {or her} actions — even if it means he {or she} is embarrassed, ostracized or even incarcerated.

If at any point the offender ceases to be in agreement with his {or her} admissions or repeats the offense — it nullifies the original agreement of reconciliation. If they choose to burn their chance — the lack of reconciliation is 100% their fault. It is not our duty to remain in the hole dug by another person's choices and hope that somehow we do not become buried alive in the wait.

Reconciliation is not always possible, or may take decades to accomplish.

If at any point we become overwhelmed with the roller coaster realities of navigating the intensity of emotions and other physical manifestations of stress — it is time to allow space for healing and reevaluation. We were created with a physical response system to alert us when we need to pull back and listen to the still, quiet voice of Holy Spirit. Overwhelm is our sign that we need to invest in {focus on} self-care and personal restoration.

It is extremely unlikely a recovery period will include the offender or anyone who advocates for him {or her}. The necessity of our recovery is not a situation we caused, it is an outcome of the original offense; the need for our recovery was caused by the offender. The continuation of reconciliation becomes 100% our choice at that point — just as the original offense was 100% the offender's choice. He {or she} must face the consequences of choices imposed upon us and face the continuing consequences of the original offense.

"No." is a complete sentence.

"You said you would try." When anyone blames us for a lack of reconciliation or insists upon more time or effort on our part — it is a blatant continuation of the abuse. It is a refusal to respect our boundaries and our decisions; we are being asked to change our choices or bear unfair responsibility for reconciliation. It is unjust to be expected to trust in the offender's motives. The needs of another adult cannot be transferred or imposed upon us.

We are already bearing the challenge of creating or maintaining personal boundaries, therefore we may be tempted by our fight or flight response to engage in conversations of argument or appeasement. Neither is necessary. We are not duty bound to explain or defend ourselves. This is our time to recover and move on. And who we share our {one wild and precious} life with is 100% our choice — without apology or explanation.

We know the situations and people that affirm us ...

Forgiveness is an act of our will through divine Grace. Our emotions will nag on within us, but our emotions are not meant to the basis for decisions. Emotions can be likened to emergency lights flashing a need for aid and comfort {and God's amazing grace}. Offenders {and their aid-and-abetters} are never part of the rescue squad. They only speak "Should" — a language most of us know how to translate — and all to often the default language in the midst of uncertainty or when we feel compelled to defend ourselves.

We were created for relationship; we are born into a family and we create a family of choice. Within the relationships we foster is a love that does no harm because we know what Love is — and what it is not. Love that does no harm flows from God through us by a willful choice. Yes, there are bits of us that crave to fit in, to have a place in our family of birth; and to be loved and accepted {by as many people as possible}.

There is not middle ground — only appeasement.

We are either moving away from what causes us to suffer — or we are moving back to its soul-ripping claws. Appeasement is rooted in a vain hope that somehow the circle of offending behavior will be broken. In that space, we are compelled to try again — extending our reach "too far" and realizing it only as the tidal wave of pain and recurrent behaviors crush us.

But we seek control and some semblance of stability. We ache for the suffering to be over — to cease its constant realities. And it is rare that anyone in the family unit where the suffering occurred will acknowledge the depth of suffering unless they experienced the same offense or abuse. We are tempted to be an audience for those who don't understand — to listen to their pleas and then attempt to explain that which we ourselves do not understand.

Abuse is rooted in fear. It is unexplainable; it never "makes sense" ...

Abuse is a mis-use of relationship and authority — of trust and of love. It is rooted within the unseen flesh of the offender and cannot be understood; it is only evidenced by the pain and suffering it causes.

Recovery and restoration are rooted in love. And it takes as long as it takes.

Our personal recovery and restoration is also unexplainable — because it is a divine occurrence. It requires undefined amounts of time. This is perfectly acceptable — even if no one affirms us in that. Healing after forgiveness will come but it will take 2-3 times longer than we ever expect. It will require more time if contact with people who need us to be "okay" around our offenders is necessary, due to personal or professional associations.

Each of us has the right to choose our boundaries — regardless of what we believe or are told ... A love that does no harm will never expect us to do what we cannot bear because this love is without conditions. We are never alone even when it feels that way. We will find our way through suffering and become empowered by it.

 //

Teresa, aka stargardener, encourages women daily to bravely embrace their wildest dreams — baby steps at a time. Many refer to her as a midwife to artists' dreams, seeing them through the birthing process of the creativity locked inside. She is an avid Instagramer (stargardener) and a rebel-promoter of no-rules art journaling and creative planning via TheArtJournaler.com and RightBrainPlanner.com

knowing your boundaries :: when I'm not you

Editor's Note: during the month of June, members of my Story Sessions community will be posting about what it means to pursue dreams, engage in self-care and practice active boundaries. They had free reign on what they wrote, and the topics come from my 30 Days of Prompts. I'm so excited about the wisdom these ladies will share with you, and I know you'll be inspired.

xoxo,

Elora Nicole

//

“What do you need right now?”

The counselor looks at me with her eyebrows raised as I started and stopped, trying to find words to a question I’d never considered. 

“I don’t….know.” Was all I could manage. 

“Okay, what do you want right now?” 

“I don’t…I don’t really know.” My cheeks turned red with frustration. This was getting ridiculous! What woman didn’t know the answer to these simple questions. How had I gotten this way? 

***

I grew up in a close knit Italian family and when I say close—I mean close—one where the needs of the family often came before the needs of anyone else.

I once heard my mom exclaim that “boundaries” were  nothing but American puritanical nonsense.

And she meant it. 

In a way it was safe. 

You automatically had a tribe to belong to, and you knew, intrinsically, that there would always be someone around. The problem was that the environment itself facilitated the idea that worrying about self was selfish, and so we all but disappeared into this giant blob called “family,” our boundaries all jelly-like, fluctuating to meet the needs of the entire organism.  

I believed that was the way it was supposed to be, that everyone lived like that. Once I left home, instead of my family, it became my husband. I structured my life around his, perpetuating the jiggly boundaries I’d learned. My husband came from a similar family and was happy to do the same, and just like that we disappeared into each other. 

When life was chaotic, I could cope well. But downtime scared me, because being alone felt like staring into an empty carton. Codependent was an understatement. 

This was self-annihilation. 

***

The first time I heard that word I gasped in shock. 

But as it’s meaning sunk in, I could see it in the very fabric of my life. In my friendships, my family, my marriage.  I’d become shapeless, letting others in and out of me at well. And oh—I put on a great show. I’d convince others I was this strong and fiery woman, but inside I was formless.  I involved myself in other’s lives because I didn’t have my own. Justice, compassion, rescuing—these became my drug of choice…anything to get the focus off of me. These were my means to hide away. 

The first thing I had to learn was how to differentiate myself from others. I had to find my skin—literally. And then I began to learn who I was, what I loved, and what I didn’t. I felt a lot like Julia Roberts in The Runaway Bride. I needed to learn what kind of eggs I liked. 

It was painful at first, because with solid boundaries, I ended up bumping into people. I had to learn what was my responsibility and what was theirs…and most importantly, that the only one I could control was… me. 

This was especially painful in my marriage. We’d been two halves, trying to make a whole, but God’s math doesn’t work like that. It’s 1+1=1. That’s the mystery of it, and the purpose—two whole people bumping into each other and learning (through a lot of patience and vulnerability) to keep choosing each other anyway. 

From there, it’s been this awkwardly terrifying journey of figuring out what I want, and what God’s placed inside of me—learning to be vulnerable in a way that’s healthy and good. I jokingly call this “my year of uncomfortable” because everything feels like wearing clothes that don’t quite fit right. But it has been worth it.   

And some days, if I’m honest, I want to go back to those jiggly boundaries, because *this* thing is hard work.  

But I have this sneaking suspicion that’s the point. 

It’s usually the hard thing that’s most worth it.

//

Alex is a writer, photographer, and wife to her husband of 8 years. She is passionate about seeing people walk in their true identities and giftings, and is herself on her own journey to this. She believes in the power of people’s stories, in living authentically, and most importantly in having fun while doing it. She writes at www.journey-to-beauty.com. 

knowing your boundaries :: how to put up a fence

Editor's Note: during the month of June, members of my Story Sessions community will be posting about what it means to pursue dreams, engage in self-care and practice active boundaries. They had free reign on what they wrote, and the topics come from my 30 Days of Prompts. I'm so excited about the wisdom these ladies will share with you, and I know you'll be inspired.

xoxo,

Elora Nicole

//

Since the beginning of time, humans have put a boundary around themselves; first, physically, to protect themselves from the outside world. We continue to do this today as we shield ourselves from rain and snow and sleet and weather besides the sunshine by building four plus walls around ourselves.

Our home is also an emotional boundary.

Our home is a sacred place. As children, we expect our parents to keep those four walls safe both inside and out.

The truth is, I don’t really know how to have boundaries.

I know that boundaries are fences around our hearts, but for my entire life, I’ve never been able to build them. I let people roam freely around the open field of my soul, completely uncaged.

This has caused me great joy and also great harm.

Not knowing how to have boundaries let me meet my husband on Twitter and say yes without hesitation when he asked me to marry him just weeks after we touched in real life. Not having boundaries allowed me to fly to him on a whim so many times. But not creating boundaries has also allowed me to ache with such greatness that I can barely put it into words. 

Not creating boundaries has allowed me to nearly kill myself with others' words, letting them sink deep inside my skin and soak into my muscles and creep far inside my bones. I took them into my heart and held them for so long, no boundary to keep them out.

Learning to live without fences means I love better, stronger, with less judgment. It also means I am scorned many times by many loved ones whom I cared so deeply for. 

Not creating boundaries forced me to drink myself stupid when I missed the past, breaking dishes on a Monday afternoon while my husband was at work. I wound myself tight around that bottle of Jim Beam and gripped right onto the porcelain and I let my boundaries break all over the kitchen floor.

Not having boundaries allows me to speak out to the Lord in a wooden pew when I feel most at home, clasped hands, saying, “yes, Lord. Bring me to you.” Even when my neighbors stare and wonder.

When I was a little girl, they said, “she wears her heart on her sleeve”.

She tells it like it is, they said.

She’s a smart-ass, too, they said.

She’ll be a tough one to crack, they said.

And she grew up to recognize that wearing her heart on her sleeve meant that openness, that wide-grown field of emotion, meant no one taught her how to put up a fence.

//

Victoria is an outspoken introvert. She changes her mind about most things in her life on a daily basis and has recently started to overcome her fears by depending a little more on Jesus, Prozac and learning financial stability. She always has messy hair.

She writes, works and lives on an island on the East Coast with her husband who she met on Twitter first and then in the airport. He is the only thing she has never changed her mind about. She is originally from Detroit, Michigan. 

knowing your purpose :: fulcrum of belief

Editor's Note: during the month of June, members of my Story Sessions community will be posting about what it means to pursue dreams, engage in self-care and practice active boundaries. They had free reign on what they wrote, and the topics come from my 30 Days of Prompts. I'm so excited about the wisdom these ladies will share with you, and I know you'll be inspired.

xoxo,

Elora Nicole

//

The Jamaican breeze seemed nonexistent in the corrugated tin and cinder block church that night. I stood, knees shaking under my sweat-soaked dress, and stared at the crowded room. There hadn’t been as many faces the night before, when the rain came and cooled the earth. But tonight, the faces were everywhere. Every bench was filled with women, and the doorways and windows were crowded with men who were curious about the lights and noise coming from a building usually silent at night. I took a deep breath and stepped up to the microphone.

“Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out;
you formed me in my mother’s womb.
I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking!
Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
I worship in adoration—what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
before I’d even lived one day.”

The words from Psalm 139 hung in the stillness of the air - and in my heart. I felt the tension as I held up a hand-painted coffee cup.

“We are marvelously made. Fearfully and wonderfully made - like this cup. Designed perfectly to hold beverages, adorned with flowers. Lovely. Someone thought of this cup, its design. Determined how it should be shaped, how it would be cradled in someone’s hand, where its handle should go. How much liquid it would hold. And that someone then took that thought and made the cup. The cup is the craftsman’s worksmanship. Created with a purpose. Just like you. Just like me.”

The faces smiled, and I took another breath. I reached for the hammer.

“But what happens when the fearfully and wonderfully made is broken?”

And for the first time in public - to a room of strangers, I named the breaks in the cup that was me.

“I was verbally abused by an alcoholic father.” (the hammer cracked the rim) “I was sexually abused by a half-brother.” (the hammer shattered the handle) “I was emotionally and physically abused by my first husband.” (the hammer broke the cup in two) “And just in case you are thinking to yourself, ‘what a poor sad victim,’ you need to know I held the hammer as well.”

I picked up the cup and threw it to the floor, crushing the pottery into shards that danced at the feet of the women in the room.

“I aborted a baby when I was 18. Took a piece of paper and wrote out the pros and cons of motherhood as a freshman in college, and made the decision to end a life because it was inconvenient.” 

I spoke that night of redemption and transformation. Of how God takes broken things, damaged things, worthless things, beautiful things, things that don’t make sense - and He hand-crafts them into things of beauty and great worth. There were prayers and tears as the crowds moved from the benches and doorways to the altar, and crosses were made from shards of broken pottery and mortar as a symbol of His power, His mercy, and His grace. 

One of the faces came closer to me. Through the sobs, the young woman asked if we could talk. We found a corner away from the crowds and she shared her own story of abuse and suffering. And she asked the question that’s always there when pain is present.

“Why?” 

I looked at her - that beautiful face begging for response - and answered, “I just don’t know.” We held each other and wept.

I don’t know. I don’t know why a dad would call his young daughter a bitch. I don’t know why a teenager would find pleasure in fondling a little girl. I don’t know why a man would hurt his wife. I don’t know why a college student would decide her life was more important than a child. And I don’t know why no one was there to rescue. 

The arguments mount about what is of God and what isn’t. If Psalm 139 is real, and if God has written every day of my life before even one is lived, is abuse, neglect, pain, and even sin written in on purpose? Or are they simply the consequences of living in a fallen world, with God revealing His purpose through - or despite - what happens? The streams of theological discussion are littered with the debris of doctrine.

Sovereign God - when dissected and diagramed - appears to be either a self-inflated jerk, a weak pacifist, or asleep at the wheel.

I live in the unreconciled tension of the “I don’t know.”

I live in the knowing that I’ll never fully comprehend all of God - that I will at once be amazed and disheartened by His providence, that for every “God showed up,” there will be a “where was God in this?” that causes war to wage between trust and doubt. I know that my logical determinations of “good” will always fall short of the mystery of its full definition.

That unresolved tension is the fulcrum of belief. What causes some to walk away has done  a different work in me, walking me through the debris of doctrine to lay hold of a greater mystery. Faith. Faith that sees past the boundaries of logic and beyond the arguments. Faith that can’t be conjured or willed, but just is. 

It’s by the great mystery of faith in a Sovereign God that my circumstances have not defined me but rather refined me, crafting in me a heart that aches for justice and hungers for mercy, rather than wallowing in woundedness or marching in militance.  It’s that faith that has transformed my “why” into “thankful for.”

Yes, thankful FOR the abuse, and the neglect, and the pain - for they have given me eyes to embrace hope and to forgive fully, and boldness to hold a weeping woman who asks “why,” and not be afraid to say “I don’t know” - thankful for a sovereign God who doesn’t explain the purpose yet makes every moment purposeful.

 //

Ronne Rock is a creative insomniac who used to wear business suits and win awards in corporate America. Those awards are now boxed and sitting in the attic, next to luggage, Christmas ornaments, and life-size replicas of Yoda and Spiderman. These days, you’ll find her sharing her marketing expertise with faith-based organizations, serving the orphaned in discarded places like Guatemala, Romania, Jamaica, and Uganda, or sitting at the dining table with a glass of wine, good food, and friends. She is hopelessly addicted to Hope, a painter of words, a believer in kitchen therapy, and a collector of adventures with those she loves. Ronne lives in the Texas Hill Country with her husband Brad, their son, daughter-in-love, and beautiful grandkids. She considers home to be anywhere her heart finds its beat.