Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 7

Finding Your Muse: The Secrets of Trees

My mother has always been a bit of a mystic.

I remember summers spent in the Idaho mountains, reading a book by kerosene lamp in a one-room cabin in the foothills of the Sawtooth Mountains. During the day, while my great grandfather would be herding cattle on more treacherous cliffs and rivers, my mother would stay behind with my sisters and me. I was content with the mountainous view and book in my hand, but I also knew she wouldn't abate until I followed her outside so I would often agree, albeit with a curled lip and frustrated whispers.

She wanted us to learn how to climb mountains and listen to trees. Every time, she'd remind us why.

"Sometimes in life you'll feel like you're climbing and hiking a huge mountain and there's no ending in sight," she would say.

I'd roll my eyes and whine about the dry valley heat and how if I'd seen one sagebrush, I'd seen them all.

"But look," she'd respond, pointing ahead. I'd follow her gaze and widen my eyes at the way the mountain peeks jutted up right there next to us — so close it seemed as if we could touch them. The air, once dusty and dry and heated, would begin to slowly carry the sweetness of melted snow dripping from nearby creek beds. We'd walk, I'd complain, she'd point out beauty.

And sometimes, she'd stop and close her eyes and a smile would play on her lips. "What are the trees saying to you, Elora?"

I'd bite a fingernail and raise an eyebrow. "What are the trees....saying?"

She'd nod.

I'd shrug, embarrassed. I'd kick at the dirt underneath my boots. 

"Trees don't talk, mom." 

"The trees will tell you secrets of God." She'd open her eyes and wink at me before walking away, my trailing behind her. "But you have to listen."

.::.

I listen to trees now. It's been over ten years since I've walked the red dirt of the Sawtooth Mountains or stood in the midst of a wooded meadow in the crisp air of sunrise, but trees and mountains and wind — they're all secret messages in their own right, carrying with them the Muse I so desperately need in order to get the words up and out of this soul.

"How do I share this story?" I'll ask the cloudless sky as I feel the summer heat radiating off my limbs and hear my dog rummaging through the dead leaves falling from the oaks surrounding me.

"Just tell the truth." The whisper is faint, but evident.

Just tell the truth.

And with that truth, a secret is unlocked and in its place rests my Muse, contented smile on her face while she listens to the songs of the branches swaying in the wind and the crash of the ocean wave. 

.::.

I was holding Jubal one day, the sun bright in the crystal blue sky. We walked around our back yard, his eyes always landing on the tree across the alleyway, leaves blowing in the wind. He'd blink fast, transfixed, his breath slowing.

I kissed his cheek.

"Here's a secret you should probably know, little lion. The trees will tell you things if you listen closely." I study the way he watches the leaves dance across the sky and I smile. 

Things to Consider:

Think back to moments in your life where your Muse began to introduce herself to you. For me, it is the summers spent between desert and mountain — crisp sunlit air and dusty-mid day heat. What about you? 

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.

Specificity with Voice

“And then he breaks.
Shaking violently, shattering in my arms, a million gasping, choking pieces I’m trying so hard to hold together. And I promise myself then, in that moment, that I will hold him forever, just like this, until all the pain and torture and suffering is gone, until he’s given a chance to live the kind of life where no one can wound him this deeply ever again.
And we are quotation marks, inverted and upside down, clinging to one another at the end of this life sentence. Trapped by lives we did not choose.
It’s time, I think, to break free.”

— Tahereh Mafi, Ignite Me

When I think of authors who blow me away with their artistic voice, Mafi is always at the top of my list. I found her through a friend and opened the first book in the Shatter Me series a few days before 2013. I had already written a blog post with my favorite books of the year, and three pages into the novel I shut the cover and placed it on the shelf to crack open in the new year.

I knew it would be a favorite even then, and I didn't have time to edit the blog post waiting in the queue.

.::.

Look at the quote above. There are a few things that set Mafi's writing voice apart from others in her genre. First, you have variation of sentence structure. Not every sentence can be easily untangled through diagramming. Often, writers can hit a groove in their writing and before they know it, almost every single sentence has the exact same structure. I fall into this camp with the overuse of the em-dash. When I'm in a hurry, I rely on it too much and my voice suffers from it. Mafi's words reveal intention in everything: even the length of sentences.

She brings us in to this particular scene with the short and violent first sentence: and then he
breaks. It pushes the reader to keep reading. If you're just taking a cursory glance at the amount of commas, the second (and much longer) sentence may seem like a run-on. However, if you're studying her structure, you'll notice the technique of making sure every single phrase can't be separated as its own sentence. She does this often. It's a rhythm that's unique to her writing.

Short sentence.
Long sentence with sweeping description and lots of commas. Shorter sentence with continuation and clarification of description. Short sentence.
Declaration.

Next, within that structure, she relies on higher syntax to build emotion.

The sentence And I promise myself then, in that moment, that I will hold him forever, just like this, until all the pain and torture and suffering is gone, until he's given a chance to live the kind of life where no one can wound him this deeply ever again includes the technique of polysyndeton — where you list multiple words back to back with a conjunction.

....all the pain and torture and suffering

This technique is highly useful in emotional scenes when you're needing to speed up or slow down the pace of the reader. If you look closely, you'll hear the rhythm of that sentence flow faster at the beginning because of the syntax of the previous sentence moving so quickly. When you get to the polysyndeton, something happens with our brains and we slow down — sometimes imperceptibly — but we breathe. We pause. We notice the scene. This is particularly useful in a scene such as this, because I don't know about you, but as I was reading I felt my breath begin to quicken. My heart rate increased. I was rush-rush-rush and then suddenly, a brief pause and I literally took a breath.

And did you notice her use of beginning the sentences with and? This is another technique: anaphora. When you use anaphora, you begin sentences with the same word. Often, you see this back to back. It builds rhythm. It builds consistency. It forces us to notice. Mafi flips the script just a bit with this passage and includes a sentence in the middle of her flow that doesn't begin with and, but in a passage of six sentences, half of them begin with this word. That's worthy of note, and it builds the anticipation of this particular couple and what they're facing.

Finally, her poetics and imagery. Earlier I mentioned that every word is intentional. This reminds me of poetry. The first sentence in this passage is and then he breaks. The last one? It's time, I think, to break free.
Sandwiched in between these two images of breaking — and breaking free, is the shift.

- I promise myself I will hold him forever
- live the kind of life where no one can wound him this deeply again
- we are quotation marks, inverted and upside down
- clinging to one another at the end of this life sentence (did you catch this play on words?) - trapped

It's in this development and clarification that the characters are able to see their next move. And I want to be clear: this isn't Mafi's voice transitioning over a character's. It's her poetic voice shining through syntax and structure and imagery that allows the characters to develop so beautifully. In this particular series, it's the character Juliette — one who's touch used to kill, but is learning the strength and power she possesses. Her characterization from beginning to end is beautiful and empowering.

So it's Mafi's style + structure + syntax + knowledge of development that reveals this voice that only she can accurately produce. Others can try to imitate her, but it won't work because they don't have the memories and stories and creativity that Mafi holds.

It's the same for you.

We all have style. A few years ago, my agent always addresed her emails to me with my poetic one, and while she represented me she spoke of my description and attention to detail as particular strengths. There are other poetic writers out there. Katja Millay. Laini Taylor. Rainbow Rowell. John Steinbeck. Flannery O'Connor.

None of these write (or wrote) like me. All of them had stories within them that only their voice could speak. Style and development and syntax are important for building voice, sure. It's what will set you apart. But what will make your words sing? Writing what you know you're meant to write. Writing the words that just won't leave you alone at night. Writing the story you are meant to tell.

Thoughts to consider: 

1. Do you know how your words work?

2. Do you know what sets you apart from the rest of the crowd?

3. Make a list of your own quirks and style within writing. Celebrate these things. 

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.

On Voice: The Hidden Nerve

Don't all writers have a hidden nerve, call it a secret chamber, something irreducibly theirs, which stirs their prose and makes it tick and turn this way or that, and identifies them, like a signature, though it lurks far deeper than their style, or their voice or other telltale antics? - Andre Acimen

I believe we know when we're being true to our voice.

For me, it's the way my heart rate escalates as I find the words to articulate something I've been trying to say forever. Or the ease I feel as my fingers fly over the keys while I type. There's no hitch — no question — no doubt. It's the rhythm and flow of my art and whenever I feel this, I know I've hit a nerve. I know I'm writing well. Even more important: I know I'm listening well.

Hit a nerve and you're going to feel it. Despite the attempts at hiding or our own fear of speaking out, when we crash into our voice we know. It's like finding an old friend. The nostalgia kicks in and we remember.

.::.

A few years ago, I was on Skype with one of my mentors. We were talking over a site she created and my participation in the collaboration. Was I still in it to write? Did I have the energy to invest?

"I think I do," I said. "I've gained a lot of clarity these past few weeks. I know what it is I'm supposed to focus on in my writing, and so I believe it'll show."

She smiled.

"Good. Because I can tell something's been missing from your writing. Your post about peonies and business? It was the shift. That's when you found yourself again."

I nodded.

"That's when I stopped caring about other people's assumptions."

We got off the call and I walked outside with my dog. Standing there in the dried up dirt of our dog park, I thought of this post. I went inside, sat at my desk, and wrote it — crying the entire time.

Writing is visceral for me. It takes up every space and if it doesn't, I feel the lack.

And so does my voice.

.::.

To write requires an ego, a belief that what you say matters. Writing also requires an aching curiosity leading you to discover, uncover, what is gnawing at your bones. Words have a weight to them. - Terry Tempest Williams

Do you know when you’re being true to your voice?

We all make different connections. Today, think about your life spent writing. What are some touching-stones revealing to you the process of knowing when you've listened to your voice? Name them below.

What were you writing about that got you so keyed-up and excited? 

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.

Reflections of a Mother Finding Her Words

I remember writing my last post, thick in the what ifs of fall. That season always makes me feel nostalgic while anxious for what the new year will bring. It's my restart for a reason, and I'm always curious and looking toward the future when October rolls around in the calendar. 

It's like something clicks and I'm back in the dreaming stages where anything is possible. 

Last year, I knew a bit of what was coming. Or rather, who. 

Even though I knew my life was about to change, I never knew how. No one can anticipate the way your heart bends and breaks and recovers in one fell swoop when your little one is placed in your arms. No one quite understands how the makeup of your brain chemistry literally changes to live and breath and function and spin around this tiny one making noises and staring at you intently and stealing your breath every time he does something new. No one covers the dichotomy of celebration and grief that fills every molecule when you adopt. And when the woman who grew and breathed life into the one you're calling son is a friend and someone you've gone to bat for and fought for in the past, you tend to lose words for how to articulate the exquisite magic and how much it all hurts.

And so, I lost my words for a bit. 

Like, no matter what I did or how I tried to trick myself into words on the page, I could not write. 

I would read my last post like a talisman. I wrote before, I would think. It's what I do — sentences and stuff. But then I would look at little lion and he would catch my gaze and smile and I would be catapulted into a completely different world and poof! would go every single thought. 

At first, it angered me. 

Our process of bringing Jubal into our home was not for the faint of heart. I would scroll through Instagram, these picture perfect families on display and celebrating adoption as the best thing ever! and how super grateful they were for their super awesome agency and I would know — I would know — that it was probably the worst thing on the planet to compare my story to their story. Who does that? Amateurs. That's who. And yet...

Here we were, still stuck in North Carolina. 
Still completely oblivious to what was happening behind the scenes. 
Still dealing with manipulation on a whole 'nother level. 
Still suddenly needing legal representation and combing through old contracts and spending hours on the phone with family trying to get to the bottom of what was looking like the hardest-Christmas-ever.

If I wrote my words bubbling up back then, or if I shared what actually found its way into my journal, it wouldn't have been appropriate for public consumption. Yeah, I was angry, but really I was terrified. The fear surrounding what was happening to us was bone shattering. We literally had no idea whether or not we would be able to keep Jubal. We literally had no guarantee that Mama Rad's wishes and decision to choose us as his parents would be honored and respected by our agency. There was no way for us to know what would happen and I went through days believing that at any moment they were going to show up and take him away from all three of us. 

My words were raw at that point. Broken. Desperate. Confused. I didn't know how to categorize these into a morsel fit for consumption by others and so I just didn't. I snuggled Jubal. I texted Mama Rad. I Marco Polo'd friends. I fell into Russ' arms. A lot. I cried buckets of tears not understanding why my path into motherhood hurt like hell when everyone else seemed to ride on the wings of unicorns.

Four years ago, I wrote a blog post right before we found out our second match dissolved. It was my last post before allowing others to step in and take over for a bit with the tried and true guest posting season. I was determined to do this thing right. This thing being writing. 

Here's what I said about this goal of writing through the mess and sharing it all as I learn about motherhood and creativity —

I'll wrestle through priorities, schedules, rhythms...maybe share some lessons learned and new things I'm trying. All of them will be bent toward encouragement and reminders that no one is perfect and we're all in this messy pursuit together. 

In the fall, I viewed motherhood as a task. A job. I assumed it would take up every.single.second. leaving me with no breathing room for other things.

I'm realizing now it's a both/and. It will take up every second of my day. It will leave me with what seems to be no breathing room at times. But that will leave me breathless and inspired by the absolute magic of it all. Motherhood is not a task or a project or a job. It's love in action. It's life in motion. It's tripping and stumbling and swinging and flying and soaring and careening toward a single hope that this soul now in our care will know one day just how much we loved, just how much we prayed, just how much we waited for him to come home before his name was even a thought or a whisper on someone's lips. 

It's Beauty and Risk and Authenticity and Freedom and Healing. 

And for this, I will write.

Bless my heart.

Here's the thing: I think we all go about this our own way. And I thought the same back in 2013, but for some reason I thought I would be the one who would write through the exhaustion and friendly emotional hijacking that mothering an infant brings. And not like, write through as in journal the expletives and prayers and combined confusion when things make no sense whatsoever and you're punch drunk on your fifth round of coffee. I meant like...here. On this blog. I would be mothering an infant and writing at the same time. 

Who knows. Maybe it would have been different a few months ago without the trauma involved. I won't ever know the answer to that question. But that's the thing: we don't ever know. All we can do is show up when the words appear.

And if the words come today or tomorrow or next October, breathe deep. They will come. It may not be when or how you expect them to come, but they'll show up — they always do. Trust me in this. 

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.

the invocation of a beginning.

I am not an early morning person, but there is something magical about the space between night and dawn. 

The other day I had a coaching session early in the morning. I left the apartment when the sky was just beginning to show her colors for the day and I found myself rolling down the car window so I could hang my iPhone outside to snap a picture. I immediately sent the picture to some of my people.

“Here you go, ladies.” 

I wasn’t the only one taken with the sky. There were others who would post their own version of the same view. Some caught it earlier, before the light made a show. Some caught it later, when the crisp blue sky took over the scene, the clouds a trail of white and gold in the background. 

It was the clouds that got me. When I first saw them, their underbellies were layered with pink and gold and a violet so deep my eyes couldn't pull away from the beauty. All I could think about was it's a new day — it's a new day.   

Coincidentally, it was also a new month. 

Ray Bradbury says that October is its own country. I feel this statement on a molecular level. October is my restart. It’s the time of year where I can breathe, where the heat of summer begins to break with the smell of fall. 

It’s where morning light doesn’t feel so foreign. 

Maybe it’s because that magic space between night and dawn feels a little longer. The winter months nip at the heels of time and demand preparation. 

Root down, they say. Take up room. 

I stretch into my full being during these months and it’s October that ushers me into the new season. 

You made it, she says. Breathe deep. Close your eyes. Remember the rhythm in your soul. 

Outside my window, the sun pushes her way through the clouds. I’m awake before the light takes over again, and this morning it’s about the way the gold seeps through and threatens the rain. It won’t push it away completely. There will be some rain that falls. But it’s quick and light — an invocation.

Sunshine rain, a friend called it a few months ago. 

Whatever it is, I know it’s a blessing. I smile and breathe in the new beginning. 

The Margins

I was going to write this morning. 

I got up with plenty of time, but then Trulee decided that this morning would be as good a time as any to demand two walks within thirty minutes and my time for writing disappeared. 

It wasn't that big a deal though, because I would have time later. I would be home by 6:15, and there would be space for this — space for words to form and thoughts to percolate.

But then around lunch I felt a migraine coming and for the rest of the day my focus was simple: drink as much water as possible. Take a lot of deep breaths. Stay awake during the meeting. As soon as I walked in the door of our apartment, Russ grabbed my hand and pulled me to his lap. 

"I just need sleep..." I said. 

He pointed to the corner of the living room and I blinked a few times before noticing the glider / swing he put together while I was at work. Internally, my heart bounced a few beats. Externally, I only kind of smiled. 

"I didn't even notice it when I walked in," I said. I looked at him and nestled my head in the crook of his shoulder. "Almost as if it's always been there...." I could feel my head close in, the vice-like grip squeezing tighter. I sighed and pushed my way to the bedroom, and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. 

That was five hours ago. Even after I let myself rest, I still had the residual foggy-brained feeling of thoughts not fully connecting. It's what happens when migraines take over completely. It's a good 24-48 hours before I can really breathe with relief again.

But I'm here now. 

More and more, writing within the margins is how the words are won. 

 

Day Three: The Margins

I was going to write this morning. 

I got up with plenty of time, but then Trulee decided that this morning would be as good a time as any to demand two walks within thirty minutes and my time for writing disappeared. 

It wasn't that big a deal though, because I would have time later. I would be home by 6:15, and there would be space for this — space for words to form and thoughts to percolate.

But then around lunch I felt a migraine coming and for the rest of the day my focus was simple: drink as much water as possible. Take a lot of deep breaths. Stay awake during the meeting. As soon as I walked in the door of our apartment, Russ grabbed my hand and pulled me to his lap. 

"I just need sleep..." I said. 

He pointed to the corner of the living room and I blinked a few times before noticing the glider / swing he put together while I was at work. Internally, my heart bounced a few beats. Externally, I only kind of smiled. 

"I didn't even notice it when I walked in," I said. I looked at him and nestled my head in the crook of his shoulder. "Almost as if it's always been there...." I could feel my head close in, the vice-like grip squeezing tighter. I sighed and pushed my way to the bedroom, and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. 

That was five hours ago. Even after I let myself rest, I still had the residual foggy-brained feeling of thoughts not fully connecting. It's what happens when migraines take over completely. It's a good 24-48 hours before I can really breathe with relief again.

But I'm here now. 

More and more, writing within the margins is how the words are won. 

 

Knowledge of Magic

The sky is crystal today, the sun shining so bright it hurts to look at the blue. If I look outside long enough, I can see fall. The colors are changing. There's yellows and browns and reds. It's also quieter. There's a stillness that hits whenever the temperatures drop below 80.  

I'm scrolling through Spotify, searching for songs to add to a playlist I haven't touched in years. I've spent the last hour deleting songs that don't describe our season anymore — songs speaking of daughters, of theology I don't agree with, of trite explanations to a life filled with nuance. 

I get a text from Russ. 

I found a song, he says. 

I click on the link and tears begin to fall. 

Well, I traveled a long way
And it took a long time
To find you
But I finally found you

Alabama Shakes knows how to get to the root of it, and I laugh thinking about when I first added the song to our list four years ago. Four years ago, the title was different. Four years ago, I thought our wait of two and a half years was excruciating. Four years ago I thought there was no way I could wait another minute. 

But I sure did find you
And He blessed my soul.

We're refining the songs for our baby shower. In a little over three hours, some of our closest friends and family will gather to celebrate a wait that's nearly over. Our little lion man is coming home in just over a month, and every day it feels like we're careening into another stage of our lives at a faster pace than before. I know this like I know the season outside: my emotions are warring with each other. I'm wanting to savor what I have now while simultaneously speed toward what (and who) is coming. Just like the change of season, it's gotten quieter around us. We're rooting down. We're preparing. We're stealing glances that mean the same thing: This is really it. My heart is kinda freaking out too. After all of this you're still my home. You still feel like earth and sky. 

We grab each other's hands when we pass in the kitchen. He's making cake balls and I'm eating cereal. We know the truth: we're building our roots because the air around us is about to explode with magic.

 

Day Two: Knowledge of Magic

The sky is crystal today, the sun shining so bright it hurts to look at the blue. If I look outside long enough, I can see fall. The colors are changing. There's yellows and browns and reds. It's also quieter. There's a stillness that hits whenever the temperatures drop below 80.  

I'm scrolling through Spotify, searching for songs to add to a playlist I haven't touched in years. I've spent the last hour deleting songs that don't describe our season anymore — songs speaking of daughters, of theology I don't agree with, of trite explanations to a life filled with nuance. 

I get a text from Russ. 

I found a song, he says. 

I click on the link and tears begin to fall. 

Well, I traveled a long way
And it took a long time
To find you
But I finally found you

Alabama Shakes knows how to get to the root of it, and I laugh thinking about when I first added the song to our list four years ago. Four years ago, the title was different. Four years ago, I thought our wait of two and a half years was excruciating. Four years ago I thought there was no way I could wait another minute. 

But I sure did find you
And He blessed my soul.

We're refining the songs for our baby shower. In a little over three hours, some of our closest friends and family will gather to celebrate a wait that's nearly over. Our little lion man is coming home in just over a month, and every day it feels like we're careening into another stage of our lives at a faster pace than before. I know this like I know the season outside: my emotions are warring with each other. I'm wanting to savor what I have now while simultaneously speed toward what (and who) is coming. Just like the change of season, it's gotten quieter around us. We're rooting down. We're preparing. We're stealing glances that mean the same thing: This is really it. My heart is kinda freaking out too. After all of this you're still my home. You still feel like earth and sky. 

We grab each other's hands when we pass in the kitchen. He's making cake balls and I'm eating cereal. We know the truth: we're building our roots because the air around us is about to explode with magic.

 

Writing for Me

I sit here at the kitchen table with no more than 15 minutes available before I have to gather my things and run out the door for work. 

15 minutes. 

I used to be able to write a lot in 15 minutes. Now I've spent three minutes deleting the last few sentences I've written. It's part of why I haven't been around here for a while. I just...I can't find it within me to care. And yet, I love blogging. I found my voice through blogging. I believe there are incredible benefits to blogging. 

I just think I've forgotten how to do it for me.

It's been 10 minutes since I started typing. I stopped and started more times than I care to admit. But I'm here — and it's messy and part of me wants to scrap the whole thing and begin again. But I won't. Because even these words hold weight. I know they do because I feel the way I loosen as they find themselves on the screen. I can breathe easier — freer. I can feel the spaces they took up within my bones begin to stretch with relief. 

There is a story here. It's the story of a woman who is fighting for her creativity and words to stay. That maybe the exhaustion she feels is the way it feels when you've spent the last drop of what's allotted to you creatively. It's the knowledge that she knows that's wrong — that creativity is a birthright she inherited when she took her first breath.

 It's the realization that maybe she doesn't have to fight at all. Maybe this space really can be anything she wants it to be and sometimes that means changing the focus every day and twice on Sundays. Maybe all she needs to do is show up at the screen and wait. This is what I want to write about for the next 31 days. I don't have a banner or a clever hashtag. I just have whatever words happen to fall on the page. 

For the first time in a long time, I'm excited about blogging again. 

15 minutes. I begin to gather my things. I know there will be moments throughout this evening where I think of this post and I think of ways I could have wrapped it up nicer, created a more poetic vibe, told a more vibrant story. But for now, for day one, this is enough.