Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 6

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Four

In elementary school, I desperately wanted to belong. So much so that when the group of girls would come around and ask me if I had heard of the latest and greatest thing, I would automatically pretend I knew exactly what they were taking about…even though I had no idea.

Because to not know would be social annihilation.

However, they had tricks up their sleeve. Every once in a while, when they asked if I knew about something, that something actually didn’t exist. So then I was shamed for trying to be cool.

I was called big boned. White dog. Ugly. Fat. Weird. Stupid.

It only got worse in middle school. Multiple times, my mom came and picked me up because the pack mentality had gone feral and I was the target.

Once high school came around, I couldn’t rely on the easy way out anymore. My mom had a job and escaping an argument just didn’t work as well at 16 as it did when I was 11. Plus, by that point I learned the art of instigation rather than being on the receiving end of an insult. I hardened. Better to know the punch line, and deliver it, then be the punch line.

Not all of my friendships were like this. There are a few friends who I was able to hang on to — friends who remain constant even now. But even in these friendships I held back, not because of them but because I had no idea how to really develop healthy boundaries and expectations in relationships. I craved the safety of sharing secrets, but always resisted — not knowing if I could truly trust the other person. There was always a new best friend waiting around the corner. There was always rumors and gossip and he said, she said.

College changed this for me. As hazy as those years were, I remember so clearly the laughter and the movie nights and the scavenger hunts. After the break-up, my world slowly started to open up around me. Conversations with friends in the dorm went from brief 10 minute catch up sessions to late night runs to the local truck stop for cinnamon rolls the size of the plate. We’d sit there talking, the melted butter dripping over our fingers, as we processed through who was the best poet: Dickinson or Dante.

We called ourselves Precious Happy Baby Girls, because our first year in the hallway designated for transfers, we found each other and fit like velcro. Daree, the RA, had an irresistible grace to her and became the irrevocable link between us all. She was the one who named us. She’d walk down the hall, peeking into our rooms.

“How’s my precious-happy-baby-girl?”

They were the ones who held me together after everything fell apart. I joined Daree as an RA late fall semester, and moved out of our hallway and into my own room on the first floor. During staff meetings, we would pile onto the couch in the RD’s office and fight over the M&M man always stocked with our favorite candy. We called it therapy hour because that couch held magical healing properties for any of our ailments. Broken hearts, stuffy noses, test anxiety — we would crash into the office at a moment’s notice, collapse into that leather that swallowed you, and just start talking. And our RD, being the amazing person she is, would stop whatever she was doing and swivel her chair around to face us so she could listen.

On nights where Shawnee’s small-town vibe felt suffocating, we would travel into the city and frequent a karaoke bar. I would sing Ready to Run and the guy running the show would flirt, not even paying attention to the fact we were underage. One night, he pulled me out of my chair and twirled me around the bar singing Brown Eyed Girl. I didn’t have the heart to tell him my eyes were blue, and I was emboldened by the cat-calls and cheers from the table full of my friends. I danced and laughed and curtsied for the audience when he was done, enjoying this new found thing called freedom I was feeling in my bones.

We formed our own inner circle, a tight-knit family that spent nearly every waking moment together.

We screamed and hollered when Daree got engaged, her and her fiancé beaming from excitement when they walked into the lobby. We threatened bodily harm to anyone who dared come close enough to break our hearts, buoyed by Justin Timberlake’s Cry Me a River and the ice picks all of us carried in the backseat of our cars.

We watched Dirty Dancing until we knew every line, and unabashedly swooned over any and all Paul Walker movies — bonus points for Vin Deisel.

It was simple: we supported each other. In a season of life where we had no idea what we were doing and the world around us was changing at a breakneck speed, together we felt whole. Sometimes, this wholeness represented itself in dance parties and midnight campus walks. Other times it looked like curling up under the covers and watching movies together or running outside to throw snowballs at each other. Most times it was just being intentional about listening to the story of the other, and realizing that we’re all doing the best we can.

It was this group who rallied around me when the ex-boyfriend and I got back together.

It’s junior year. I’m confident again. Over the summer, I cut all of my hair off into a trendy bob that doesn’t even reach my shoulders. I do it on purpose: he never let me cut my hair.

I hadn’t thought about him for weeks. And when I do think about him, I’m not left spinning anymore. The memories have dulled the edges of pain.

He tests the waters first. Calling me at 4am, drunk and confused. I know it’s him based on the familiar drawl, but pretend to not recognize him. I hang up, but the memory haunts me.

Could it really be him?

Why would he be calling?

He calls again.

And again.

We slowly start talking, late night conversations that cover everything from why he broke up with me and how much he misses me to the pedestal of comparison he’s placed me on since we ended things.

“Every other girl I date is compared to you, Elora. Every one of them fall short.”

It draws me like a flame. My friends hesitate, like any good friends would, but at my persistence they begin to welcome the possibility again. He’s different, I say. And in a lot of ways, it’s true. But not in the best ways. Not in the ways that count.

About a month into us talking again, he surprises me in my dorm. I walk down the steps and once I see him, freeze. I even turn around and walk back up the stairs to hide my face because I know I look scared and excited and hurt. My heart beats too fast to function. Grabbing the rail, I close my eyes, take a breath, and then manage a smile.

I’m ecstatic he’s there — but what I’m not expecting is the grief I feel when I catch his eyes. Memory is a funny thing. I haven’t seen him since he whispered cowgirl up to me and told me he didn’t love me anymore. So the dichotomy of remembered hurt and absolute bliss is something I’m not prepared to experience, like the newness of my shaky hands in his presence.

Normally I feel at rest.

Normally I feel safe.

I shake off my misgivings and smile wide for the camera as my friends giggle and wave us off on our date. I find out that night he still loves me, he never really stopped, he just doesn't want anything serious. I brush off the words and nod like I agree.

He’ll come back, I think. If he loves me, this will be forever.

A month later, on a bright November morning, my friends help me plan my own surprise. I show up at the high school where he’s visiting his favorite teacher, the one who told me over the phone after we started dating that “there are two seasons in his life. The one before you and the one after y’all met.”

When he sees me, he wraps me in his arms.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he whispers in my ear.

Later, after we eat our traditional meal of Sonic chili dogs and tator-tots, we start wrestling. He starts tickling me. I laugh and bite at him. He leads me to his bed.

“Stay the night,” he murmurs against my forehead. “I just want to know what it’s like to wake up to you.”

I almost cave. His arms tighten around me. For a moment I literally can’t move. He has me in his grip — and he knows it — but my morals win out in the end.

“One day.” I reply, my hand on his cheek. “One day we’ll wake up to each other.”

He grunts an agreement.

I get back late that night, drunk off of the potential life of living with him. My friends curl up next to me on my bed as I process the feeling of wanting to stay.

“He told me he loved me before I left.” I say.

They smile and squeeze my hand.

And when the inevitable happens, when he sleeps with a mutual friend a week later over Thanksgiving break and then tells me I’m acting childish because I’m okay with it, they pull up a big red trashcan in front of my door and help me get rid of every last memento while I cry.

“I’m so sick of crying over him.” I say.

“I know baby girl. And if we could, you know we’d cut him for you.” Daree picks up a charm he gave me and tosses it in the trash, already full with sweatshirts and stuffed animals and cards and everything that built the story of us.

Everything but the pictures.

“What about these?” Heather asks. It’s a stack of at least 100 pictures, all spanning the years spent with him.

I glance up and wave my hand. I’m too tired and emotionally exhausted to make any decisions. I want to throw them away, but at the same time, I wonder if I will ever regret not having them. I’m determined to get rid of everything, so I let them decide.

“Oh. Those? Do whatever. You guys get to choose. Burn them for all I care.”

She smiles and places them in her bag, catching Daree’s eye. “I think we can manage something.”

We work until the early morning hours and when we’re done, I collapse into my chair at my desk and check my email. There’s one from my sister.

I just wanted you to know I wrote him today. I’m so angry. I told him to never contact you again — not by phone, not by email, not be carrier pigeon. Hopefully he got the hint. If not, I’m sure mom will have a few words for him. I love you.

I laugh and wipe a tear from my cheek. My mom loved him. Mostly because he knew how to turn on the charm.

There are so many things my parents don’t know about him — so many things I keep hidden for fear of their approval. Like how I knew in my gut Thanksgiving wasn’t the first time he cheated on me. Or how there were times where he looked at me and I would be afraid. The way he controlled me, the way he insulted me — it would take years for me to label it for what it was: verbal and emotional abuse — but in that moment, I was just thankful to be free.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Seven

Russ starts showing up in class again. We’re in Psychology. He sits right behind me and the entire hour I am intensely aware of his presence. We start eating lunch together. I know he’s dating someone, someone from his hometown, but I’ve only seen her with him once or twice.

He comes into the library when I’m working the circulation desk and checks out Baptist History books. He stands there for a little while and we chat. We never run out of things to say but every single thought is alert and at attention. I’m cautious. He feels dangerous. Dangerous in the but you already have a boyfriend sense. Dangerous in why do I get goosebumps when he hugs me sense.

The entire time I’m buzzing.

One day, he stops by our dorm with what looks like a bong. I happen to be in the lower lobby when he bursts into the room. I raise an eyebrow at the plastic contraption in his hands.

“Is that….”

He laughs, his eyes full of mirth.

“…a cola bong.” He anticipates my question. “Do you want RC or Surge?”

“Do I want….what?”

“We’re so doing this, Elora. Come on.”

I glance around me. I’m not one to give into peer pressure, but this is seriously harmless. Baptist-grade fun. It doesn’t surprise me Russ is currently serving as a youth pastor, because this is reminiscent of lock-in games like dip a donut in chocolate syrup and dangle it above your friend who is and lying beneath you wide-mouthed and waiting.

But still. It’s Russ. And being around him makes the room feel charged with something I’m not able to articulate.

“I don’t know….”

He shakes his head, denying my hesitancy.

“Nope. Not an answer. RC or Surge?”

I smile slightly, and he knows he’s won. His face breaks into a huge grin and he does a quick fist pump, his eyes full of glee.

I choose RC.

He hands me two dollars, since he doesn’t have access to the vending machine around the corner, and I purchase one RC and one Surge. My roommate bumps into me in the hall and asks what I’m doing.

“Russ has a cola bong?”

I say it just like that — like it’s a question and not a fact. I’m still unsure what’s even going to happen here. I keep telling myself nothing. She squints then and raises her chin a little bit.

“Have you talked with your boyfriend lately?”

The question is pointed and I feel the gut punch of guilt. Just recently, she gave me the third degree about a guy I met online, a friend who frequented the same chat rooms and websites. We spoke often on AIM, and he now had our phone number. She didn’t approve. I was too innocent to even know some stranger on the internet could probably also be a stalker (which he turned out to be) and dangerous (which he was most definitely).

My eyes start welling up and I get frustrated. It’s what happens when I get super serious, and like my facial expressions, the tears always rat me out. If I’m crying in a conversation and it’s not a sad one or a happy one, it’s because I’m feeling my words in my core. The thoughts I’m expressing aren’t surface level ones. Something is happening within my molecular structure, and the shift personifies through tears.

“He’s calling me later,” I step around her and then turn, walking backwards. “And no, I haven’t heard from internet boy. We ended that when he got the cease and desist.” I rock the drinks in my hands and smile at her shocked expression. I don’t think she knew I could read into her question.

“You sure you don’t want to come?”

She shakes her head and opens the door to our room. I turn back toward the double doors and see Russ waiting in the hallway in front of the elevators. From his smile, I know he’s in the middle of a belly laugh, the one where tears pop up in his eyes but never fall.

I pause for just a moment, long enough for his eyes to throw a question my way, but I shake off the realization that I’m beginning to know his different smiles and walk through the doors, my own lips curling and reaching toward the sky.

I hand him the drinks and he motions me toward the couch.

“So here’s how we’re going to do this. I’ll pour the RC down this funnel, and you’ll put your mouth at the end. Lean over the trash can in case things get a little messy.” His shoulders start to shake with laughter and I give him a playful glare.

“What do you mean…messy.”

“I would just keep your thumb ready to plug the tube if you need to breathe or anything.”

I wait a beat and then frown.“This is such a bad idea.”

He laughs. “This is a very good idea. You’ll see.”

I lean over the trashcan and place my thumb against the cut plastic. My eyes shift from his hands to his face and I suck in my lips.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

He gets a mischievous glint in his eye and it makes the color even deeper, like a rich dark chocolate. I swallow and look away, planting my mouth against the tube and giving him a thumbs up.

Before I know it, there is soda coming toward me and a whole lot of fizz. Like, a lot of fizz. I hear Russ hollering at me in the background but everything is sweet and sticky and the bubbles are tickling my throat and when I look at the tubing all I see is foam and I know it’s going to get worse. I can’t do it anymore. I move my mouth away from the plastic but forget to plug with my thumb and RC is spraying everywhere. It’s on Russ’ shorts, on his legs, on me, on the couch, on the carpet — we’ve made a mess and now we’re laughing so hard both of us are crying.

“I thought we agreed you would use your thumb.”

“We did. I just…It came fast.”

I’m still coughing, still trying to get the tickle out of my throat. We grab some nearby napkins left over from someone’s fast food run and start cleaning as best as we can. The couch is stained, though. I can already tell.

“Sorry you’re sticky now.” I fall against a nearby cushion and motion toward his legs. “Still think this was a good idea?”

He looks at me then, and my stomach jumps into my throat and back down through my ribcage when I see the emotion in his eyes. Before he can answer, my roommate walks in, the phone hanging from her fingers.

“He’s on the phone,” she says. She steps in to hand me the receiver with the look of someone who believes she just interrupted something electric, and she’s not far off. I find myself thankful for her impeccable timing all over again. I jump off the couch with a quick bye to Russ and snatch the phone out of her hand.

“Hi babe,” I croon into the speaker. I only halfway see my roommate roll her eyes. I know I’m not innocent. The eye rolling is probably warranted. There was something in Russ’ look back there that I don’t have time to decipher because my boyfriend is on the other line. The one I love. The one I want to marry.

Keep telling yourself that, a voice echoes at the base of my skull. I ignore it. I walk through the double doors back toward our room and stake my place against the wall in the hallway. I slide down, feeling the stickiness of the RC against my legs next to the carpet.

It was nothing, I say to myself as I listen to the boyfriend rant about his pizza delivery. But I know better. It was most definitely something, I just don’t know how to categorize it.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Three

He breaks up with me on Easter Sunday.

I know it’s coming. For the past six months, he’s grown more and more distant as I grow more desperate. I hate being that person — the one who hangs on as tight as possible to someone who obviously wants to let go. The electricity of when we first started dating slowly gives way to glowing ashes struggling to take fire again. The air around him feels stale and suffocating. In October, fresh from me shaking off his uncharacteristic response on the phone, he plans on coming to town for parents weekend.

“I want to see your folks,” he says.

I soak up the charm, happy someone is willing to bend over backwards to please my parents. But instead of coming to see me, he finds himself stuck with a broken down car. On the phone, he sounds distraught.

“Don’t worry about it, babe. You’ll get it fixed. Maybe you can come down tomorrow?”

“No…it’s not enough time. There’s no way that could work. I really wanted to see you.”

I smile.

“I want to see you too but we’ll figure something out. Maybe I can come up in a weekend or two.”

“Yeah maybe.”

I don’t pay attention to the way his voice changes. In my mind, it’s just a broken car — totally fixable. I would find out later that it was so much more. Just like the towers were my metaphor, the car was his. I didn’t know this, but that weekend he planned on asking my dad for permission to marry me. When his car broke down out of the blue, he took it as a sign. A few weeks later, right before Thanksgiving break, he grows silent. It scares me.

“What’s going on…why are you acting like this?” I ask, a hitch in my voice.

“I just need a break, Elora. I’m feeling suffocated.”

He’s feeling suffocated?  I think, incredulous. He has no idea — no clue — how short my breaths were when he was around. All of the air he once gave me is now gone.

“…a break? What does that even mean?”

“It means I don’t think we should talk for a few weeks. I need to get my head on straight and I can’t do it with you calling me all the time.”

“Wait. I call you all the time? Pretty sure it’s not always just me.”

“Well it feels like it.”

“Because you ask me to call you. You tell me — call me when you get in…call me when you wake up…call me.” I echo his words, the tears making my voice crack. I hate that my emotions are showing. He’s silent on the other end of the line.

I hesitate. “Okay. Um. So how does this work?”

“First of all, you should probably stop wearing your ring.”

I catch the coldness in his tone, the same bite I felt when I called him and caught him unaware early that September morning. Something shifts. I feel it in my bones. Everything secure shatters into a thousand pieces of questions and doubts.

That conversation is the beginning of a season where I hold on to hope that one day — some day — our relationship would be back to normal. It never gets off life support…I’m not sure what sounds the death knoll, but it continues, in agony, for six months.

In March, fresh off him deciding that I can wear the ring again, we’re on the phone and I listen as he tells me one of his biggest concerns with our relationship is that he doesn't feel as if he can talk with me.

“What do you mean? We talk every night. Our entire existence is made up of cell phone bills and ways we can communicate with each other.”

“Yeah but Elora…sometimes you’re just a ditz.”

I swallow the sting of his words and keep talking, choosing to ignore the way my breath feels shallow. At that point, we’ve been together almost two years. Every time he looks at me my world spins. I’m in a completely different orbit when it comes to him. The other girls, the snide remarks, the way he overpowers me — I have no idea how to navigate the feeling in my gut that we were now a time bomb, waiting to go off.

And I have no warning that when he finally breaks up with me, my entire world would spin off its axis.

I go to see him that weekend instead of going home. My parents understand. By that time, the promise ring adorns my left hand. The assumption is obvious. Everyone expects him to propose. Even me — even after six months of him hanging me by a thread.

The entire weekend he ignores me.

We go out to eat and he sulks in his booth. We watch movies and he stays in his corner of the couch. We walk his dogs and he doesn’t reach for my hand. We go to church and he shrugs my arm off his shoulders during Sunday School. Before, he would find my eyes and send unspoken messages. Those few days he never looks at me. Never touches me. I am a burden. Invisible. The entire weekend a brick lodges itself in my throat. My worst nightmare is coming true. What was once my air is now stealing my breath right from under me.

He goes to work at the local car dealership and I play sand volleyball with some of our friends from church. I feel awkward without him. This is the first time I’ve been left stranded with others in town and I’m trying to find excuses for why he’s working on Easter.

“Oh he’s trying to save money,” I say. It satisfies the questions.

“I guess that’s why he doesn’t want you with him, huh?” Someone asks with a wink. I know the implication. He’s talking about an engagement ring. I take a deep breath and laugh it off.

That night, in an attempt to rectify the disconnect I felt, I suggest we look at stars. This has been our thing since the beginning of our relationship. The brick in my throat grows by the minute. I feel him falling away and I’m doing anything to try and keep him. We pile into the bed of his truck and within minutes I’m dizzy with his words.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Breathe through the fear.

“What?”

“We’re too serious.”

“But…since when?”

He doesn’t mean this….

I knot my fingers together in the pocket of my hoodie to keep from grabbing at him — he’s lying on his back, arms crossed, face to the sky. He’s right next to me, if I turn on my side I can  see his breath in the cool night air.

He feels a million miles away.

We’re on two different worlds and he put us there. I’m angry. Devastated. I’m desperately trying to figure out a way to make these feelings disappear.

I’m not accepting this. I’m not. I jab my finger into his shoulder.

“Where is this coming from? You’re the one who wanted to do pre-marital counseling.”

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, and I inch away from him. I know this look. This look he reserves for conversations about his father. This look he reserves for the annoying girl who wouldn’t leave him alone. This look he reserves for his disappointment when his sister punches another hole in their wall.

He gazed focuses again on the sky above us. His words are quiet. His jaw sets.

“I don’t love you.”

My heart shattering like glass beneath me. The noise pierces the silence. I can’t breathe.

“You don’t…love me?”

“Well…I mean, shit. We’re young, Elora! How the hell am I supposed to know what love is?!”

I sit up on my elbow so I can see him.

“You seem pretty damn sure when you said it to me this past year and a half.”

“Elora….”

“Just take me home.”

He watches me for a moment before muttering under his breath and wiping his face with his hands. I balk. He’s angry. He’s angry with me for speaking up and questioning his motives.

“Gladly,” he whispers under his breath. Another wound. I swat at my cheeks, angry at the tears betraying my emotion. I look at him and jump off the bed of the truck, leaning against the side. I need to get away from him. This is not the man I fell in love with all those months ago. This is not the person who ran electric currents through my veins. I shiver in the cold and realize it’s April — the cold I feel is the ice radiating from his gaze.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore.” I whisper.

We ride to my best friend’s house in silence. Some horrible rock band plays on the radio and for a second I decide to blame the music. He never used to listen to rock. We used to listen to country, making eyes at each other because of the lyrics.

If he still listened to country, I reason. It makes absolutely no sense, but I’m grasping for straws at this point. We pull up to the curb and he unlocks my door. I pause for a moment before leaving. I know heartbreak. I’ve felt the crack in my gut before with other relationships. But this was entirely new. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I feel like a zombie. I built my life around this man who means everything to me and now he’s choosing to mean nothing?

“I don’t know how you expect me to bounce back from this…” I say, fingering the hem of my hoodie. I am full blown pathetic now, hoping against hope it’s all some kind of horrible prank. At least then I would get his laughter again.

“You know that scene in 8 Seconds where he doesn’t want to ride the bull?”

I blink for a moment, confused at the sound coming from his mouth. His voice is rich with a hint of drawl, the type that cause women everywhere to pause and listen. For years, I’d been woven into the same spell but now, it feels forced. Contrived.

“What?” I whisper, my voice cracking from the strain of holding back tears. I turn to look at the front door and wish there was some way I could send my best friend a message.

Please come out, it would say. I’m in pieces.

“8 Seconds. There’s that scene where he doesn’t want to ride the bull and his friend says ‘cowboy up.’” He looks at me, I can feel his eyes burning a hole in my cheek. He runs his finger against the grain of the leather on his steering wheel. “You just gotta cowgirl up, Elora.” He offers a half smile.

“You’re gonna make it. Just not with me.”

Another punch to the gut. I swallow my words and turn to walk up the steps. It doesn’t take long for my best friend to know what happened. She sees my face and drops her phone.

“You’re kidding.”

I shake my head, dissolving into sobs that careen into every pore. It takes a week to catch my breath and not collapse into tears at a moment’s notice. I’m not Elora anymore. I’m Grief. I’m not sure how long I cry that night — how long I let the pain completely envelop me. The questions suffocate. Am I not good enough? Not pretty enough? How can someone just…stop loving someone else? Was everything he told me a lie?

Will I ever find someone else?

That’s the hardest question. Mostly because I didn’t want to find anyone else.

My best friend tries to talk me back from the edge. So does her mom. Both are shocked and stumble through their words.

“Why settle for something good when God has something great for you, Elora?” Her mom asks in a soft voice, a small smile playing on her lips. I want to wipe away that smile. I want to burn things. Tear down their happy little life.

I end up just swallowing my words all over again and decide instead to dissect every little moment of our relationship. I’m going to figure out where the breakdown happened. I’ll figure it out and then fix it, draw him back to me.

I can do it. I knew I can.

I stay in my dorm with the lights off, begging God to do something — anything. When I finally come back to class, my professor pulls me aside and asks what’s wrong. I start crying again.

“Oh, honey. Elora. Listen….it’s going to be okay.”

Something in her voice causes me to calm down. I blink and look at her, taking a deep breath.

“You are a strong woman, you hear me? You will get through this. This is not the end. Not in the least.”

Her words help. Mostly it’s the look in her eyes. Fierce — independent. I wipe the tears from my face and go back to my seat.

She smiles at me before turning to the class.

“You are all a lost generation.” She says, spreading her arms wide. The people around me start to shift from their conversations. “Gertrude Stein said this about her company of artists who found their way — and their voice — in the streets of Paris. Today, we’re going to talk about why she felt this way, and how it showed in the work they created.”

I take a deep breath and write down what she said — scribbling it in the margins of Hemingway’s Hills Like White Elephants. Something in those words feel true, something about finding voice and feeling lost. I turn my attention back to Dr. Gerard, walking in circles with a smile on her face and talking about the writers who found a home in a land that wasn’t their own.

And just like that, a fire long turned to ash came back to life.

Words.

Story.

Home.

It feels like roots and air.

I sink deeper into my chair and let the rise and fall of my chest carve out an entirely new rhythm. I’m not naïve; the dull ache still pulses in the space between my ribcage. I know it will take months for me to completely heal from the grafting of what I thought was true, but healing would come. Sitting here, remembering my love of words and literature, I find a piece of my core I let go in hopes of falling in line with someone else’s dream. Slowly, something else locks in place. Something that feels a lot like resolve.

My professor is right. This isn’t the end. Not even close

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day 2

By the end of the week, I’m done for — and so is the Linebacker. By August, we’re talking every day. By November, we’re exclusive. By Christmas, I know I’m in love. He gives me a promise ring and I don’t care about anything other than what it means to be his girl. I am entangled. He is my air.

By the time we find ourselves back at the camp a year later, people wonder about the real ring — engagement. His high school friends keep dropping like flies and getting engaged, and we are the coupled duo everyone expects to last. We spend the week finding yet another unoccupied cabin and resting against each other as we daydream about what our like will look like ten years from now.

He would be the football coach.

I would be the English teacher.

We’ll have our small house with the picketed fence out in front, our kids laughing and tripping over each other.

Our kids.

We talk about them like you do a story, and I’m not sure about him, but even now those moments still don’t feel concrete. Nothing has changed. I think of myself as a mother and something obscures any vision possible. It just doesn’t feel true… I can see myself as a teacher. I can see myself at football games and within the community. But kids? I say nothing about my doubts and assume that certainty will come with time. I’m well on my way to the American Dream: husband, kids, white picket fence….

Knowing the seriousness of our relationship, I transfer to a college about an hour away from his home town. The year before, fresh off of his Linebacker of the Year award for his district, he suffered a massive concussion that took him out of the game for good. As devastating as that was, he’s not letting it slow him down. He enrolls in the junior college and plans on transferring to University of Oklahoma his sophomore year. We have everything planned.

Everything is perfect.

And then everything falls apart.

My first memory centers around one morning in September.

I have my first test that day. Hoping to get some time in for studying, I go to the cafeteria for breakfast and to meet a friend. When I walk into the building, a group gathers around the television downstairs. I think it’s weird, but not worthy of pause. I focus again on my notes.

But then I notice there isn’t a student worker waiting to swipe my card at the top of the stairs.

And then I notice the cafeteria is eerily quiet.

I feel a thrumming in my ears, that feeling you get when your intuition begs for you to pay attention. Something sour settles in my gut and my eyes rests on a group of about twenty professors standing in front of the television in the corner, their gaze hypnotic.

Finally, I get close enough to read the print on the bottom of the screen: PLANE CRASHES INTO WORLD TRADE CENTER. I don’t know what was happening, but I know it’s something. I skip out on breakfast and grab a banana as I rush out the door.

I remember the student talking to his parents on the payphone downstairs, his tears visible from across the room. I remember the way my hands shook as I try to get my card to cooperate with the lock outside my dorm. I remember opening my door and turning on my television just as the second plane crashes into the buildings.

And I remember calling my boyfriend, needing to hear his voice — needing the safety of him and us and my world to turn right again.

“Hello?” He answers the phone, groggy from sleep.

“Hey, babe. I’m sorry I’m calling so early—”

“What? Elora. Why are you—I’m sleeping.” His voice holds something foreign — a coldness.

“I know. I’m sorry. Just…just turn on the television.”

“You called me to turn on the fucking television?”

I’m crying by then, my entire world upended in a single moment and marked by these towers now threatening to fall.

Don’t fall. Please don’t fall, I beg the screen, wrapping my fingers and hope around the phone chord.

“Please.” I whisper. “Just turn it on. Something’s happened.”

I can hear the echo of the network on his end and the quick inhale of breath.

He knows.

And yet, somehow, this doesn’t make anything better.

Thirty minutes later, as I walk down the hallway toward my next class, I peek into a friend’s room as she watches the footage and we gasp in unison as the building give way to ash and rubble. I stand there, frozen, unable to form any thought. Unknown to me, those towers had become metaphorical. I can’t help it. There’s no way to categorize the horror, the way the faces of those running the streets of New York City would imprint themselves in my memory. I have to make it work for my psyche — and still nothing makes sense because it doesn’t work. The buildings collapse. People jump from windows to their death. The Falling Man is memorialized.

And my life turns topsy-turvy.

I go to work that night while everyone on campus hosts a prayer vigil in the living room of our dorm. I try to make sandwiches and conversation with those who find themselves out and about on such a dark day, but it’s impossible — both for them and for me. No one wants to talk. For a few days, everything is a holy hush, the pause before a breath.

My best friend at the time, the one who wrapped her arms around me back at camp and knew I was in trouble before I could even articulate it, picks me up that weekend to go home. We drive Highway 69 talking about life and love and new beginnings, and hold our breath when we see a plane in the sky.

“Is it falling?” I ask.

The clouded vespers it leaves behind make a noticeable line toward the horizon.

She slows the truck and pulls to the side of the road and we sit there, staring at the piece of metal against the cobalt blue, until it rights itself and points its nose to the heavens.

I close my eyes and let myself collapse against the leather seat behind me. She shifts her truck in gear and eases back onto the road.

It takes years for my world to feel as if it isn’t in decline — isn’t collapsing — isn’t headed for certain disaster.

And It Will Feel Like Truth — Day 1

I’m seven when I first start dreaming about him. I remember it with clarity. I’m at work with my mom and reading books in the waiting room. I sit on the couch, reaching for the next story that will catapult me up and away from the overwhelming blue of the room. Blue couches, blue carpet, blue walls. I love coming to work with my mom, but I do not understand monotony of color.

I choose the next book in my favorite series: The Babysitters Club. It doesn’t take me long to read the entire thing — maybe a a few hours. Within minutes I’m lost in the world of these characters I see as friends. I look up from the last page and sigh, satisfied. One day, I’ll be as cool as Claudia or Stacy. I know it.

And then I blink and am lost in a daydream that hits me with force.

I never had baby dolls growing up. I never had that maternal instinct that desired a baby doll of my own. From what I remember, there was a stuffed Precious Moments rabbit I named Cindy and a doll I named Rebecca. I had a lot of Barbies — I loved dressing them and playing with the various outfits. Cindy and Rebecca provided security while I slept. But babies? Babies weren’t a thing for me.

What developed was the dream of Prince Charming. I am hopelessly romantic from the start, and most of this is because of what I see in my own mother and father — their love is potent and obvious to anyone in the same room.

I’m not sure exactly where I go that day in my mom’s office — it’s somewhere deep where thoughts turn murky but tangible. Somewhere we’re given hints and visions of what’s coming. It feels like electricity dancing on my skin. It feels like the ocean’s rhythm deep in my veins. I inhale deeply and close my eyes, afraid the feeling will leave me.

What comes next is a deep knowing.

I would fall in love one day. That’s what I see: me in love. It’s me and some figure, walking hand in hand, a cloud of rosy lavender surrounding us. It’s the first experience I have with intuition and the feeling is addictive. I stand up, the books falling from my lap. Butterflies cause a ruckus inside my gut, and I walk slowly around the room trying to alleviate the way they tickle my insides, my arms moving back and forth like I’m dancing. I feel like I’m floating, but with roots burying themselves deep in the earth, keeping me safe from falling.

This must be what love feels like.

And he’s out there waiting. I can feel him like I can feel my own breath.

You’re out there, I think. You’re out there, and we’re going to fall in love. I smile and run my finger down my braid. You will be my air, and you will be my roots, and falling in love with you will feel like Truth.

This doesn’t change throughout my middle school and teen years. Every boy is a possibility, every conversation a curiosity. Because of this, I don’t date much. I have my barometer and if something feels off, I turn into a skittish colt. My sophomore year of high school, I find someone who feels like roots, who feels like familiarity and laughter and home town. I know it isn’t right though, and after a week of summer camp and my suitcase still full of soffe shorts and tank tops, I call him up and end things.

I just don’t want to settle, I said, my face wrinkled into a grimace. He takes it in stride, like any teenage boy would do, and bounces back with a mutual understanding.

The following summer I find myself back in his car, the best friend in the backseat, windows down while we cruise 1604. I stick my arm out the window, feeling the way the wind directs my hand, and stare at the stars. I still know he isn’t the one I want, even though I want him in that moment. He isn’t air and roots, but he’s close. That counts for something, right? With Pearl Jam’s Last Kiss blaring on the radio and the sultry summer breeze blowing my hair helter-skelter, I feel invincible. I ignore the prick in my gut telling me this is dangerous, that I’ll get hurt, that he’s just in it to have a good time.

I’m sixteen and alive, and in all of my naivety, I think that’s what I want, to have a good time. I’m wrong. I’ve never been a good time kind of girl. I’ll find this out time and time and time again, but this moment — right here — would be the first.

When we finally end things, when I realize he doesn’t want me like I want him, the uprooting is harsh and quick. At that age you feel like you know everything, and even though I know he isn’t right, part of me that believes I can make him fit. I tell my friends this one day, and they laugh at me.

“You can’t make someone work for you, Elora.”

I shrug, not convinced.

“I mean…can you picture having kids with him? Can you picture growing old with him?”

My nose wrinkles for half a second. I can feel it and I’m pissed at its betrayal.

One of my friends looks down at her hair that reaches to the small of her back. She’s breaking off the split ends and I know this means she’s thinking. She brushes it behind her ear and sighs.

“I don’t know. I can’t imagine having kids with anyone.”

We gape. Out of all of us, she’s probably the most conservative. She doesn’t want kids? My brain doesn’t understand, even though I’ve never really thought about it personally. I’m not one to go bananas over babies or little kids.

“Do you think it’s because you just haven’t met someone?”

She smirks. “No. I just don’t want kids. I’m pretty confident. Can you imagine? Your life just…disappears. I can see myself falling in love, maybe traveling a lot….I can’t see myself having kids.”

I raise an eyebrow and catch the eye of another friend sitting with us. I think I understand what she’s saying. Kids feel like ages away — their concept nebulous and blurry. Love feels concrete. Adventure feels imminent. But kids?

We grow quiet for a little bit and then I rest my chin in my hand.

“I don’t know about kids, either.” I admit. “But I do know I want to fall in love with one of my friends. I want to have a love story like Joey and Pacey. We’re best friends, and then all of the sudden, we look at each other and know.”

The boy who rooted me wasn’t going to be forever. I know this now. He’s close, but he’s not kinetic energy. And our relationship happened fast. We met, we fell for each other, we burnt out with the ferocity of teen love. I think about the fact that we haven’t even held hands and roll my eyes.

Definitely not a forever type of love.

There are other guys after him, brief crushes that never line up with that inner barometer. But then I meet the linebacker.

I meet him at a church camp. Stereotypical, I know. It’s the summer after my senior year of high school. I have college to look forward to in the fall. I’ll be rooming with one of my closest friends, and meeting complete strangers who are supposedly supposed to be lifelong relationships. I’ve spent the summer traveling all over the the Western hemisphere: Haiti, the Texas coast, South Carolina, Oklahoma. I feel cultured, even though I’m anything but — my innocence is still very much a force field.

I’ve always heard about the electricity between people being palpable. I never believe it until he reaches for my hand and smiles. The sparks make me suck in my breath. My heart rate jumps when he touches my hand and I’m afraid he can see the pulse going crazy in my neck.

This boy could ruin me, I think. I don’t get a chance to react. I hear footsteps behind me and before I can see who they belong to, arms wrap around my shoulders. I know who it is immediately, another local — someone I met at a Disciple Now a few months prior and befriended quickly. I place my hands on her arm. Having her here emboldens me.

“It’s about time y’all got here.”

I laugh at the familiar drawl and nod. “I know. Traffic in Dallas was horrible.”

The Linebacker’s eyes pop out in surprise.

“You know her?” He asks me, pointing to the face behind me.

I turn and wrap my arms around her waist and raise an eyebrow.

“Is that going to be a problem?” I snap back and he hides a smile.

“We met at D-Now,” my friend explains, glancing at me briefly with a weird look before turning back to the Linebacker. “You should have come.”

The boy catches my gaze and I’m suddenly experiencing the rage of butterflies on a suicide mission, every synapse firing and motioning for cover because oh my gosh he’s looking at me….

It’s never just a casual glance with him. For as long as he’s in my life, his gaze will undo me.

“I guess so.” He responds, looking at me for a little while longer before smiling and tapping his best friend on the chest. That’s when I notice the football in his hand.

“Come on, man. Let’s go.”

They walk away and I watch them, heads bent together, shoulders broad, swaying in the  high school way of boys who know they can have anything in the world.

“You’re in trouble aren’t you,” my friend giggles and nudges my side with her elbow.

I keep my gaze on their retreating figures.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I swallow and turn to look at her. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to focus. “So where are the girls staying?”

What's Saving Me Right Now

Little Lion's curiosity:  

Within the past month, Jubal's mental capacity to understand questions and accept curiosity has been staggering. He's always processing. Always pulling and pushing and uncovering and pinching and tasting and shaking. It's amazing to watch and it may sound silly, but it's helping my own processing: how am I staying curious? What currently has my attention? 

It's so easy to just roll with the punches and live life in one fell swoop, but I want to accomplish more than work and sleep (which feel like the only things I can accomplish on some days). 

So his curiosity is pushing me to be more thoughtful. Intentional. How am I spending my days? 

Date nights with my love. 

I work from 1-10 every night, and so being OUT and with my love makes everything worth it. Capturing the sunset doesn't hurt, either.  

For my birthday we went to a local bar we love and on the way there I watched as the sky turned different shades of violent and remembered this right here will always be my aesthetic. Lavenders and rose and teal and indigo and magentas merging together to put on one last show before letting the moon take over? 

Always a favorite.

The only thing that could have made it better is if it were by the ocean.

My Book of the Month subscription:

No but really. I will unequivocally state that this is the reason why I'm able to get back into reading after an uncomfortable hiatus. If you know me you know that if I'm not reading, I'm not creating. Plus, there's not much that can make me happier than new books. It's a win-win. 

Books I've gotten through the subscription —

Girls in the Moon, Janet McNallyYou Will Know Me, Megan AbbottLucky You, Erika CarterPerfect Little World, Kevin WilsonLies She Told Me, Cate HolahanEmma in the Night, Wendy Walker

and so much more. 

Other moments saving me:

Excerpt from AND IT WILL FEEL LIKE TRUTH 

getting the notice that Jubal Vox's adoption is finalized. For good. Forever. Coffee, always.  Investing in an iPad Pro and Apple Pencil to take my writing and creativity to a whole new level.Jubal's smile when he wakes up from a naptraining new hires at work and using my teacher muscles I love so muchpictures and videos of the total eclipsebelly laughter with friends  inching along in the memoir word-by-wordseeing Spencer Hastings on an episode of NCISIntroducing Air Mattress movie nights to Jubal

For the longest time, I felt trapped. I was so exhausted I couldn't think about doing anything else other than sleep, cuddle little lion, and work. And I was happy and content during these times, but I knew I wasn't doing what brings me the most joy. Even still, I found it hard to care because all I wanted was to curl into my sheets and get some rest.

Because of this, I struggled with why. Why pick up a pen or a book if it's not going to matter anyway? I'm so rusty with words, why try putting them into sentences? 

The Elora who published books and wrote consistently and taught classes on creativity felt so foreign. There were days on end where I had to fight to keep from giving up completely on anything creative. I couldn't write, couldn't read, couldn't do much of anything. But seasons are real for a reason, and I knew it would end eventually. I'd gone through this before, and I would go through it again. I kept breathing in beauty wherever I could, hoping that eventually, the clouds would break and I would be able to create again. 

So beauty, in all of its forms, is what is saving me too. 

Tell me: what's saving you? 

 

Elora Reads: The Mailbox

Last night I finished reading The Mailbox by Marybeth Whalen. 

First, let me say this: I've been in a reading slump. 

I can't even remember the last book I finished. So when I had some extra time this weekend, I decided to find a book I knew would be a quick read regardless of the content. Usually these look like an indie book. Probably YA. When I opened my kindle app, though, The Mailbox was the first to show so I clicked. 

Also worth noting: I think I purchased the book as a Kindle Daily Deal. Currently the book sits at $8.99 for the Kindle version and I can't imagine paying that much for a book I know I will love, let alone one I have never heard of and think I may enjoy. 

According to the premise, it had everything that would warrant a clearance purchase from me: set off the North Carolina coast, an intriguing plot, seems to be an easy read. 

Two of those were correct. This is set in Sunset Beach, right on the South Carolina / North Carolina border. It was also an easy read in that I could skim pages and not really miss anything. 

The plot fell flat for me.

 Boy meets girl when they're teenagers. They spend summers together on the beach, promising each other the world. Girl goes back to city in the fall, and they pick up their romance when she returns the next year. 

But then one year, boy gets another girl pregnant (shocker). 
He marries new girl, out of confusion and desperation, and doesn't tell his long-distance-love until months later. 
Years go by and both experience dissolution of their current relationships, and when girl escapes to the beach after her divorce, she runs into boy and they live happily ever after. 

Basically. 

In between all of this is a mailbox where Lindsay, the girl, writes her thoughts like she would a journal (why doesn't homegirl have a journal?). She does this every year. Just one letter. There is a kindred spirit who keeps the letters, and when she finds out who this person is, she feels betrayed — as she should. 

I struggled with this book. A lot. I wasn't prepared for the platitudes thrown throughout the pages, and I felt the characterization was weak. Campbell's ex feels stereotypically harsh and calculating. Lindsay's relationship with her best friend is one dimensional, only speaking of the men in her life and nothing more. When she escapes to the island, her and Campbell go on a date and when he leans in to kiss her, she explicitly states she's not ready to be physical since she just finalized her divorce. 

He still kisses her, which makes her hesitation magically disappear. 

And, at one point, when the person who has been LIndsay's "kindred spirit" apologizes for taking her letters and reading them, part of the apology includes, "but, because I did this, you've been my kindred spirit this whole time." 

When she asks for clarification, she gets "these letters are why I returned to God." 

#sigh

What I enjoyed: it being on the North Carolina coast. That's really it. The scenery felt similar to our time in Kure Beach and that made me want to keep reading to hear more about it, but turning the page kept me disappointed until the end. The only reason I kept reading was because I was so desperate to finish a book I pushed through, hoping it would get better. 

Rating: 1 out of 5 stars 

Ordinary Time

I made chocolate chip cookies today. 

Normally, this wouldn't be bloggable content. But I have not made cookies since August, and as I was slowly sifting the flour into the butter and eggs and sugar, I felt myself breathe a sigh of relief as I watched everything merge together.

Life hasn't felt normal in forever. First it was the announcement: little lion man is coming. Our days went from slow and methodical to frenzied and kinetic. We danced around the tiny one bedroom apartment washing onesies and finding nooks and crannies for a crib and swings and his changing table. 

He's coming; he's coming, I would hear in my bones. Like a prayer. An incantation. 

It was a season of forward motion. Of what-was-once-now-will-be-different. We barely had time to catch our breath and take a look around before we got the call that it was time to head to North Carolina. And from there? Well, from there we just hit a sort of stasis. All of this movement and rushing and hoping took the form of holding vigil on the shore — both for our son's arrival and the green light to go home.

This stasis followed us back to Texas. 

And I mean, I get it. Adding a baby to the mix of your daily rhythm does more than alter a few things here and there. It's a bomb of diapers and formula and teething and kisses and spit-up and sleepless nights and laughter and wondering who you even were before this magical human came into your world and changed its molecular structure. 

But seven months later, we're starting to find our balance. I'm starting to feel myself breathe. I'm feeling the pull of ordinary time sink into my veins, beckoning me to enjoy the rest. 

Jubal is in his high chair, gnawing on a wash cloth. He sings while he rubs his gums with the cloth, his mouth opened as wide as it will go, his eyes closed, his head slightly tilted. I see the cookies on a plate next to him, and smile as I watch Russ methodically plan our dinner of fried chicken. 

This is my life now, I think to myself.

And my heart bursts with joy.

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Take Me There!

On Mourning Transitions (Or When Life is Different but Beautiful)

It's happened at least three times. 

The first time, Russ and I had just moved into our shiny new apartment with natural light everywhere. Hope felt like a living breathing thing we could touch. I remember snapping a picture of the apartment number — 126 — and posting it on Instagram. 

"New beginnings," it said. 

And we all know new beginnings mean starting over. 

I had this vision of me art journaling in my office with the natural light falling into the room, dancing off the walls and my paper. I would sit in that chair — right there in the corner — and write through the night, until my heart had spoken her piece. We would finally bring home our baby to this space, too. I knew that in my bones but couldn't tell you how or when or why.

But it wasn't like this. Not really. 

Two weeks after we moved, I texted a friend. 

"MAYDAY. I can't create. What is happening?!" 

Her response was quick. 

"You need to mourn this transition, braveheart." 

It was the first time I had ever heard of "mourning" a season. This transition my husband and I were in was a good thing. Wouldn't we celebrate it? 

"All transition is a loss," she told me. "Even if it's bringing you into something good — something better." 

Oh. Well. That changes things. 

We were experiencing loss — definitely. Loss of a dream. Loss of a goal. Loss of friendship. Even though the loss was initiated through our decision making because of what we knew we needed as a family, a loss is a loss. It still stung. And when she sent me these words, I realized everything I'd been trying to forget. 

The second time it happened was a little more brutal. I stepped into freedom, but lost a business. With that particular loss, the relief of letting go felt like breath and space to stretch into who I am meant to be, but it also looked like betrayal and whispers behind my back. I can think of that season now as The Burning Season: everything around me burnt to ash, but with it came growth I never anticipated. Because of that season, I found myself working for a company I've always admired from the distance. 

I also wrote Secrets Don't Keep as an answer to the gumption that made its way into my veins during those few months. 

I'm living the third season now.

It's a season where Creativity looks so much different than it did before.

I cannot stay up until 2am writing anymore. I haven't art journaled since August. Last time I was able to color my hair was at the beginning of January. I haven't gotten my nails done since February, when Russ and Jubal were in North Carolina. This past month we did shift bids at work and I didn't have the freedom to choose the schedule I would prefer: I had to think about when Russ worked, when he hoped to be working, and what that meant for childcare before I chose the schedule that would best fit our family.

There is not a day where it's feasible for me to jump in the Subaru and drive the 45 minutes to see one of my best friends who I haven't seen since January. Right now, because I'm training a class at work, my life consists of waking up, snuggling with my son, going to work, coming home, and snuggling him some more before he falls asleep. After that, my weekends are my space to create, and usually this looks like one day of Netflix binging (to recuperate from the week) and one day of writing and reading.

I used to be able to pick up a book and collapse into the pages, finishing it by the end of the day. Not anymore. Now I rely on the quiet space of a sleeping six month old and (sometimes) the empty conference room during my lunch at work. 

Even though I have my hopes of space to create during the weekend, sometimes it's not done at all because mama needs a nap, too. And that's okay.

My husband and I haven't gone on a date since March, and that was to Target and Dairy Queen. And this isn't for lack of babysitters or trying. We have incredible people who've offered, multiple times, to step in and give us a night. But our schedules are completely opposite — both in day and time — so we can spread out the availability of caring for Jubal. While I'm training a class, I see him just as much as I see my son. After I put Jubal to bed I normally collapse on the couch against Russ for about 30 minutes — if we're lucky — before I have to drag myself to bed.

In this season, we cannot make sudden decisions anymore. We cannot go to the movies anymore. We cannot leave for weekend trips anymore. We cannot use our extra cash toward replacing necessary items for us anymore (mostly because extra cash? Ha. What is that?) 

Basically, we cannot live the way we did before.

And this is a loss. It took me a while for me to admit this — to whisper to myself that I miss having time and space to think and create. I fought a lot of guilt and a buckets of shame because I should be grateful — so very grateful — for this gift of a season. 

And I am. Completely. I didn't understand why I felt this way when in reality, I didn't want to go back to how life was before little lion came into it. I'd rather have him than space to myself any day of the week. Then I started thinking — I didn't want to go back to any of the other seasons, either. 

If I've learned anything through the process of bringing Jubal home, it's that you can hold multiple emotions all at the same time. The human psyche and heart are nuanced and layered and so very difficult to capture. When I hold my son I waited six and a half years for, I'm not thinking, "I'd rather be reading or writing or creating." It is all him. All I can focus on are his eyes, his smirk, his laughter.

But in moments of quiet, when I open a book or sit in front of my computer to pen some words, I realize I miss that piece of me and I'm glad that for a moment, I'm getting to spend some time with her. As I write this, he's sleeping. I'm able to focus. I remember how much I miss the feel of being in the flow when words come without me even trying. I think about how great it would be to have a day to myself — how many words would I be able to write then? Even as I think this, I know the truth: probably not a lot. I'd be thinking about Jubal. Wondering if he was okay. Texting Russ to make sure he didn't need anything. Brainstorming about something fun we can do as a family when I get home and remembering our jam sessions that have quickly become some of Jubal's favorite moments. 

This life I'm living? It's magic. The story we found ourselves this past year in has completely taken our breath away and I am daily thankful for the gift of loving little lion. I am grateful for all of the seasons before this one and how they prepared us to become a family that loves hard and lives to join forces with those breathing life into new things.

Our life last year was good. 

Our life this year is better. 

And for that, I give thanks. 

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Take Me There!

Art: The Demanding Mistress

There’s no way around it: Art is a demanding mistress. 

She’ll wake you in the middle of the night. She’ll have you falling asleep at the crack of dawn only to get you out of bed a few hours later. When Art visits, there’s nothing else you can do.

This is a lie I used to believe.

Now I know that Art, and her twin Inspiration, visit quietly. This is different than silent. There is no sneak attack of words these days, no looking over my shoulder for when an idea will slap me upside the head. I know now that she sounds like the trees rustling in the wind or the distant rumble of thunder in a summer storm. She sounds like my husband breathing in the middle of the night. She sounds like the sound of a laugh that comes from the gut, eyes wide shut in glee. 

And if I’m honest with myself, when an idea comes to me, I feel the weight of the roots internally.  Ideas do not come on a whim, they breathe and grow and learn our grooves. The succulent ones take over and make themselves known. The titillating ones — the ones meant to distract — they grow with abandon but have nothing holding them down. It’s why they tickle. There’s no substance there and they feel like a feather across your insides.

But here’s the thing: I know that if I’m not careful, I can miss Art in how she comes to me. My first clue is an erratic sleep schedule — up earlier than I should to hit the daily grind (and not to read and write) and falling asleep in the pitch black hours of night, mostly because I’ve been glued to Netflix.

I become a zombie. Get up, scroll through Facebook, get dressed, go to work, come home, eat dinner, watch Netflix, fall asleep. Art keeps me alive. She fills my lungs with poetry and beauty. I never lose sight of my purpose.

When Art goes silent, I know Fear has taken her place. 

It can happen for a number of reasons: my schedules goes haywire; I’m faced with a crisis; I receive a criticism; I question my story.

Regardless of why he shoed up, there’s always one thing true: when Fear takes root he demands our attention. It’s easy to talk yourself out of creating in this moment. 

You’re too tired and want to sleep.
You want to stay up and read this book.
You need to clean the kitchen instead.

Or, you don’t even need to talk yourself out of creating. Usually, when Fear has come to stay, I am so easily distracted by social media. I wake up early to write and then scroll through Facebook until I have to leave for work. I sit down to finally write a blog post but then get caught reading every one else’s words instead of creating my own. 

Art keeps our vision straight toward the horizon. This provides movement. Fear keeps our vision peripheral. This keeps us stuck. 

If you feel stuck, if the frustration is getting higher and higher and you feel a little suffocated, ask yourself —

what is it I’m afraid of here?

Get quiet. Go still. Stay in this position until you hear the answer and resist the judgment and shame that may surface.

Every artist faces fear at some point in the career. For me, I have to face him down daily. But looking him in the eye brings the power back to you. Looking him in the eye and demanding an answer shifts the momentum and allows space for Art to breathe again. 

Remember: art is not a demanding mistress. She waits for the signal. 

So if you’re struggling because you’re not a writer….
Or if you feel the tightness in your chest because there’s just never enough time….
Or if the thoughts are pinging about you having nothing to say….

You have a story that needs to be told….and only you can tell it. 
Fear keeps our breath short and lacking….breathe deep and remember you have all the space you need.
Fear likes to grow in urgency and need….if you go still in order to find words you will not be forgotten.

Don’t let fear win.

You are a storyteller. There is time for you to breathe. And you absolutely have something to say.

Grab My Book! 

This book is for the creative who knows you have a story to tell but you have no idea where to start.

Let me help you: you don't have to wait for the gatekeepers anymore. 

The time for your book is now. There is no excuse. You know this — you feel it in your bones. That's what this book is for — that's why I wrote it.

Ready to begin?

Find it here on Amazon.