On Writing – #1

Aug 29, 2016 | Writing

This week, I’m offering a series of posts on writing – ones I’ve written before, new ones yet unseen, anything and everything that reminds you of just how powerful the act of writing is – whether you have any aspirations of ever being a writer…or not.

On moving and writing and coming home.

Two years ago (has it been that long already?!?) my daughters and I moved from our house of 13 years to a condo. Months of preparing. Months of work. Days of hard labor that felt more like years. Hardly a simple process. It pushed all three of us to our limits and still required more. Various states of disarray. Boxes. Everywhere. At first, flat and hidden, then tripping hazards, then assembled. Next – painfully and endlessly –filled, taped shut, and stacked to the ceiling. And into them, so many memories, so much of the past, and every bit of the future – yet unspoken, but imagined, anticipated, and hoped-for.

Questions swirled. What memories will yet be created in this new space? With whom will I have conversation? Over what will I laugh and cry, celebrate and grieve? What relationships will form? Which ones will end? What will I know and experience? What will I write?

Writing. Oh, that.

Every day – for days on end – were so packed, so full, so exhausting that writing felt like a distant memory; something I used to know and do, but couldn’t quite place. It was overcome by details, by movers, by conversations with my daughters about leaving the only home they really remember, by more trips to Target than I cared to count, by “yes, let’s just order pizza…again,” by a wonky internet connection, by cables and cords, by muscles so sore that all I could do is fall into bed and barely get back out of it the next morning. There was no writing.

It strikes me that it hardly takes a move for this to be my reality. I’ve struggled with it lately – not feeling at home. And because, frankly, it’s way easier to not write. The similarities to moving abound: hardly a simple process, pushing me to my limits, still requiring more…

Writing calls forth my willingness to allow various states of disarray. Writing requires that I box up what no longer works and take it to the dump. Writing challenges me to make space, to start fresh, to invite beauty. Writing compels me to sort through stories, ideas, and words that ask to be unpacked, honored, and given their proper place. Writing is, in and of itself, hospitality: providing food, shelter, and rest for all that longs to be let in, welcomed, and hosted. Writing is home. And creating home takes work.

It’s no wonder that I felt displaced. I didn’t want to do that work. To unpack the boxes that were piled ceiling-high in the attics and basements of my own mind and heart. To do the work of unwrapping everything protected. To not know if once unpacked, unwrapped, and exposed anything of value will be worth staying in and with.

In order to write, to create, to be “at home” I have to be willing to move.

This is what I’m musing about even this morning – now two years into this home, two years at this desk, two years looking out this window. Moving. Freeing all that’s been boxed to decorate and dance and inspire at will. Pulling up deeply entrenched roots and putting down others. Letting old stories be reimagined in new spaces and new ways; making room for those that are yet to be told (and lived). Welcoming my truest self, my very soul with hospitality. Coming home.

May it be so.

The New Colossus

Jun 15, 2016 | Women's Voice & Power, Writing

By Tanya Geisler

 

For the last two years, I’ve been writing with a group of amazing women writers. Each week we show up with our words and we witness each other’s voices speaking our joys, our challenges, our grief and our delight.

On yesterday’s call, Tanya shared this piece of writing. And it was so powerful and moved us all so deeply, that we decided we each wanted to share her words on our walls, on our blogs. We wanted to be Georgina to her Emma…

It is my strongest encouragement and deepest hope that you read Tanya’s words. 3 reasons (at least): 1) It is beautiful, powerful, and deserves to be heard. 2) It is written by a woman I advocate for and love. 3) You need to hear what she has to say.

The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
~ Emma Lazarus

You remember these words?

Lazarus wrote this sonnet to raise money for the construction of the pedestal upon which the Statue of Liberty would stand. It was read as part of an exhibit to great acclaim, but was promptly forgotten and wasn’t included in the opening of the statue in 1886. It wasn’t included on the pedestal, even. It just was…absent.

She died a year later.

Can you feel that? Can you feel the pain of something written that was celebrated in a
moment, known then forgotten. Looked over. Looked past.

Vital and alive. Then insignificant and abandoned. Seen then unseen.

But there is more, of course, for how else would we know this famous sonnet?

Because a woman named Georgina advocated on the poem’s behalf. On Emma’s behalf. On behalf of all that the statue could come to represent, should the sonnet be re-remembered. She called in favours, lobbied hard and worked tirelessly to have the meaning mean something.

In 1903, Georgina succeeded, and a plaque bearing Emma’s words was created and
installed in the pedestal.

It was then that the Statue of Liberty stood for something. On something. What was
conceived as a French token of admiration for the American way of life became a symbol of hope and welcome for weary refugees in fourteen scant lines.

Fourteen scant lines upon which American ideals rest.

The very ideals that are being gunned down in nightclubs. That are being turned inside out and spat back with vitriol and ignorance and arrogance from the podium.

These words of a woman, written for a woman, and upheld by a woman, are once again being appropriated at best and at worst, ignored. Shouted over. Seen but unseen. Heard but unheard.

They’re trying to tear her down. They’re trying to gag her silent lips. They’re trying to wall her up. They’re trying to keep them out. They’re trying to kill them off. They’re ruining everything.

Everything.

Everything that is good and holy and kind and decent and beautiful and possible and
hopeful and right and sacred.

Will we continue to let them? Will we continue to stand with mild eyes observing the chaotic tempest around us?

We were born knowing what is right. And then, we unsee and forget. Until we re-remember what we know. Until we re-remember that we are mighty.

And it’s up to us, you know. We must speak the words of her silent lips. I will be Georgina to your Emma. Let’s lift the lamp and shine the light. Let’s do this. Let’s stand for something. On something. Something colossal. Something like everything.

Is beauty worth $8 + tax?

May 6, 2016 | Hope & Encouragement, Writing

As I sat down to journal this morning, I spotted the fresh tulips I bought just four days ago. They are already drooping. One or two more days and I’ll have to throw them out. Is it worth the money when
they only last such a short time? What I’m really asking, is this:

Is beauty worth $8.00 + tax?

I know the answer AND I can see the way my mind wants to weigh the benefit, the value, the worth – as though beauty (and so many other things) is practical, something to be calculated through a Return-On-Investment filter. And this got me to wondering: How many other values that defy measurement do I subject to such?

Multiple examples rush to mind:

  • The measure of my own self-worth tends to decrease the higher the number on the scale. (I’m not proud of this – even disagree with it, fundamentally – and still…)
  • I have been known to measure a blog post’s success (and subsequently the worth and value of my writing) on the number of shares, likes, or views it receives.
  • Based on the response I receive (or don’t) from a text or email I send will measure my willingness to continue to express my desire.

This kind of measurement doesn’t serve me at all! And yet, I do it all the time.

But here’s the thing: self-worth, creativity, and desire don’t bow to a cost-benefit analysis.

There is no measurement or rating to place on such things – as though we can analyze and determine in advance whether a quality like hope or love or grief or disappointment is worth it. And when we try, it’s a slippery slope. More than slippery, it’s downright dangerous.

  • The tulips are going to die. Why spend the $8?
  • Allowing myself to express grief surely won’t change the past. Why bother?
  • This happiness won’t last more than 5 or 6 days. That’s not long enough. Better to tone things down than to be disappointed.
  • Even if I don’t eat this candy bar today, I’ll weaken tomorrow. The effort at restraint isn’t worth it given my certainty of the future.

Though a few of these may sound somewhat silly, more of them sound familiar. This is exactly what we do. This is exactly what I do. Here’s my best (and most current) example:

Too often when I sit down to write I am measuring the value of my words as I go along. I hear the voice of the critic, fear certain misunderstanding, worse being ignored, and have already begun quantifying them, limiting them, cutting them off at the knees. I have already dismissed their significance and the value of my ongoing investment. In effect, I’ve done to myself (before anyone else can) the very thing I fear: I’ve ignored my own words! Sometimes I so completely pre-determine their value and worth (or lack thereof) that I never begin! (I know you know what I mean here…)

Further, in (pre) measuring the worth of something, in determining it’s value (or not) we actually enable the very thing we intend to prevent.

  • 6 days of beauty in my home isn’t worth $8 — and so there is no beauty in my home.
  • My weight will never change — and so it doesn’t.
  • My grief won’t heal anything — and so I don’t heal.
  • My happiness will never last — and so it doesn’t.
  • My writing will never go anywhere — and so it doesn’t.
  • Why keep hoping? I’m going to end up single anyway — and so I will be.

Here’s what I’m coming to:

Risky investments and not measuring the approximate value and worth, even logic, of our every move might actually be the safest bet. Buying tulips even though they’ll droop and die. Making healthy choices even though it’s hard. Choosing to grieve even though it’s scary. Allowing myself to feel joy knowing it will not last. Writing and creating no matter who understands (or not), reads it (or not), loves it and me (or not). Giving away my heart and desiring, desiring, desiring even though I might get
hurt.

Stated even more clearly, a safe bet is never as interesting, exciting, or fun as tossing our fate to the winds, holding on to hope, and being willing to risk everything for what we value most  and deeply desire.

I’m off to buy more tulips…

Boom-Boom, Boom-Boom

Jan 18, 2016 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom, Writing

I often listen to podcasts in the morning. Out of the shower, getting ready for my day. Today’s didn’t really offer anything all that new. But apparently I need to hear the same thing – spoken a million different ways and a million different times by a million different people – before I actually hear it. Today was that day.

The guy was talking about his career. Well, his previous career, actually. He’d been the pastor of a huge church, thousands upon thousands attending every Sunday. The role required that he wear two predominant hats: one as leader, the other as teacher. He loved the teaching hat – the writing, the reading, the research, the crafting of new and innovate ways to communicate all that he held in his head and his heart. And though he didn’t often say it out loud, he saw this aspect of his work as “art.” The leadership part? That drug him down and made him crazy. So, he did what any person might do in a similar bind: he asked for advice. The “wisdom” he received? “Maybe your art needs to be sacrificed for the greater good, on behalf of your larger and more important responsibilities” (my paraphrase).

When seeking guidance, don’t ever listen to the tiny-hearted. Be kind to them, heap them with blessing, cajole them, but do not follow their advice. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

He did not, thankfully. He eventually walked away and crafted an entirely different (and un-advised) life for himself that didn’t turn out all that badly, (He was recently on tour with Oprah).

Back to the podcast: there was more of his story, what happened after he walked away, etc., and then the part I’ve heard at least 999,999 times:

“You know that thing you just keep hearing inside, like a big kick-drum that just keeps going boom-boom, boom-boom in your chest? That thing? That’s the thing you’ve gotta do! No matter what! That’s your art. That’s your passion. You’re on the planet to pursue that beat!”

Yep. Got it. But this time, apparently the millionth time, here’s where I went:

What if Eve heard this podcast? What if having an interesting conversation with a snake and bucking the system and breaking the rules and reaching for the fruit and eating it and giving it to Adam and leaving the Garden and venturing out in the world and creating and living was the boom-boom, boom-boom in her chest?

Still a leap beyond-imagining? OK. How about this?

Once upon a time there was a woman who lived what appeared to be an idyllic life. Still, she felt like something was missing, like there was more to be seen and experienced, like something was calling her to a world beyond that one she currently knew. She could almost taste the opportunity to step into her truest self, to seal her destiny, to create her legacy. It was a HUGE decision, no question about it. There would be consequences to be sure. Still, how could she not reach out and grab all that she’d been imagining and dreaming and planning and hoping for so very long?

If she were my client here’s what I’d tell her:

That boom-boom, boom-boom? That’s the spark-of-the-Divine beating within you! Trust-trust, trust-trust that when you listen to and follow that beat, the life you will live will defy all stories ever told, will surpass anything you’ve imagined, will create legacy and impact beyond belief! In fact, your story, one of these days, will probably be one that is told until the end of time! How can you not reach for what you want?!? Yes, it will be hard. Yes, people may disagree with your decision. And yes, it’s highly possible there will be hell to pay (some would say, literally). But the story that is yours to tell and live? Epic stuff, truly!

That may be what I’d tell her (and you and certainly myself), but it’s hardly what we’ve been told about her. Instead, we (well, the collective, cultural “we”) have used her story as perfect example of what not to do, as irrefutable evidence that listening to and trusting the drum that beats within is just asking for trouble.

The stories we are told create the ways in which we make sense of the one in which we live. The way those same stories are interpreted define the rights and wrongs by which we live.

Eve’s story has determined how we understand right choices and wrong ones, risky choices and safe ones, wise choices and foolish ones. So instead of honoring her boom-boom, boom-boom, we have learned to listen to a familiar hiss that sounds a little something like this:

“Don’t follow that beat. Disaster and destruction surely await the entire planet (or at least your corner of the world) if you take that chance, state what’s true, write that post (or book), leave that job (or marriage), make that choice, eat that fruit, follow that beat. Don’t do it!”

But here’s the thing: Eve’s story is just a story…just like yours!

And because that’s true, I have total permission to tell her story as I wish (my boom-boom, boom-boom) and you have total permission to write, tell, and live brand new ones for yourself! Boom-boom, boom-boom!

Even if you don’t tell her story differently, I’m hopeful that hearing it for the millionth time will help you see it (and Eve) a new way; more importantly, that it will help you see your story a new way.

What story would you imagine, write, tell, and live if you could?

That, that is your boom-boom, boom-boom!

I’m right about this.

Boom-boom, boom-boom…May it be so.

Today: 10 years of Blogging!

Nov 15, 2015 | Writing

10 years ago today, November 15, 2005, I wrote and published my very first blog post.

No one knew but me. And that was enough. Because when I started, that was all that mattered. I needed a space in which I could tell my truth. I found it.

How could I have predicted that this space and telling my truth would push me, compel me, strengthen me, challenge me, and change me as it has? How could I have guessed both have been the vehicle through which I have met some of my forever dearest friends? How could I have anticipated the way in which one small post would turn into 1065 of them (as of today)? And how could I have ever known that for all its evolution, for all my own, that one thing would remain the same? It was then and is still a space in which I tell my truth.

Gratefully, amazingly, miraculously that truth has changed so much over the years! Gratefully, amazingly, miraculously I have, as well.

10 years ago, I was 44.

10 years ago, there was no gray in my hair.

10 years ago, my daughters were 9 and 7.

10 years ago, I had just finished my Masters program.

10 years ago, I had just started a new job.

10 years ago, I was still married – about to celebrate my 13th anniversary.

10 years ago, I had no thought of being a divorcee – or a single mom – or an entrepreneur – or a writer.

10 years ago, I had no conception of subscribers or Notes From Her, or SacredReadings, or SacredConversations, or a SacredMuse App.

10 years ago, I had no idea that I would beprivileged enough to give a TEDx talk or feel so profoundly humbled every single day to work with clients (that I LOVE).

10 years ago, my very first post consisted of only four sentences and 78 words:

I’m always so impressed that people find the time to blog; to write meaningful reflections about their lives, their thoughts, their questions, their musings, their joys, their frustrations. I want to be one of those people too. I have a life, thoughts, questions, musings, joys, and frustrations – and so much more. Maybe this will be a place where I can share those with others and, in the process, begin to understand them better myself. May it be so.

All of this has been so – and then some.

I would be remiss to let this significant marker pass without extending an arms-flung-wide-open embrace to you. The days are long gone in which I write only for me (at least here).

And gratefully, amazingly, miraculously that has transformed me. You have. Thank you.

Here’s to the next 10. *clink*

May it be so.

Using a Pseudonym

Sep 12, 2015 | Women's Voice & Power, Writing

I’ve been wondering lately what I would write if I had a pseudonym, if I wrote with some super-secret name. Countless women over countless centuries have hidden their gender behind the veil of masculine pen names, an effort to be received fairly in an inequitable world.

Louisa May Alcott (A.M. Barnard)
Mary Ann Evans (George Eliot)
Charlotte Bronte (Currer Bell)
Emily Bronte (Ellis Bell)
Nora Roberts (J.D. Robb)

My query has nothing to do with gender or opportunity; more, with wanting complete freedom and total permission. Let me repeat that (for myself, if not for you):

Complete freedom and total permission.

My clear and endless desire for these things, begs two more deeper questions:

1. What is it that prevents me from telling my story and speaking my truth in full disclosure and full volume?

2. Why do I not live and move (and write) from these places already?

And those two prompt two more:

1. What if I did?

2. What if you did?

May it be so.