there are things i want to tell you

I want to tell you about the ways being a mother pushes me more than anything I've ever done. It knocks me around. It takes my breath away. It takes me out at the knees. It grows my heart bigger.

I want to tell you about the way I can see love float through the air whenever my daughter giggles. It's like heart-shaped bubbles surround her, surround us, and I can't help but relax into myself.

I want to tell you about the ways I'm certain that I don't know what I'm doing, the days when the questions and the shoulds and the whys stack up.

I want to tell you about the moments when I wonder why it has to be so hard, why she has to push so hard against me, against the love.

I want to tell you about the moments that are full of ease, full of more joy than one person can hold, full of certainty and wide hope.

I want to tell you about the moments when I whispered to her, "All you have to do is live. Is breathe on your own. And then you can live big in this world. You can love big. You can walk beside an elephant in Africa and discover all that you love and become a superhero and just be anyone you want to be. All you have to do is live" as the ventilator whooshed beside us.

I want to tell you about the choices I've made, the mistakes, the blunders, the parenting moves I want to redo because I'm that mom whose baby girl almost died and it can be hard to get out from under that truth.

I want to tell you about the ways I'm trying to soften inside when I think about those mistakes because she's that daughter who doesn't need to think about that almost for even a second because she's so strong and living so big in this world.

I want to tell you about feeling turned inside out while also feeling certain that "yes, even this" can be the path.

I want to tell you about the ways I don't do it all, the ways I'm plowed under by the clutter and the anxiety and the "Please don't ask me one more time if we're there yet."

I want to tell you about the ways my heart keeps stitching together as another bead slides down the string and she joins in as I chant to Ganesh and later after she's in bed he looks at me and says, "Can I hold your hand?"

But instead I'm just going to tell you that each day I'm doing all that I can to set down the pushing and the almosts and the "yes, even this" sometimes to notice the way I want it to be and the way it is, and I'm building a bridge between them where I'm going to sit and dangle my feet while I eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I'm building a bridge where I'm going to live.

Where we're going to live.

you are not alone over there honey

I shared these words a few years ago, and I'm feeling deeply moved to share them again.

A prayer in the form of a quote from a wise man from my favorite show, The West Wing:

“This guy’s walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can’t get out. A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, ‘Hey you. Can you help me out?’ The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, ‘Father, I’m down in this hole can you help me out?’ The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by, ‘Hey, Joe, it’s me can you help me out?’ And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, ‘Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.’ The friend says, ‘Yeah, but I’ve been down here before and I know the way out.’”

- John Spencer as Leo McGarry on The West Wing (Season 2, Episode 10)

You are not alone over there honey.

the turtleneck sweater

Last week, I decided to put on my favorite black cashmere turtleneck sweater. I was about to head into my studio and remembered I'd forgotten to turn the heat up, so I knew it was going to be chilly in there for the first hour or so.

This is a sweater I've had for years that bought at Lord & Taylor in downtown Chicago. And I wore it a lot. I think it was even part of my wedding rehearsal outfit almost 12 years ago.

But I haven't worn it in years because sometime in the last 12 years, Stacy and Clinton of "What Not To Wear" (and probably other articles I read in "women's magazines" when I used to read "women's magazines") convinced me that my body type and turtleneck sweaters were not friends. Something about how my boobs and my waist and my neck would all blur into a lumpy mess. I should focus on scoop necks. And it is true, scoop necks do look good on me, especially because I wear a bra that fits (insert quick digression where I gently suggest you go to Nordstrom to get fitted for a bra that is your size honey. please give yourself this gift).

I got rid of all my other turtlenecks, including a favorite favorite favorite chenille sweater that was just like my friend Virginia's that she let me borrow on the morning after a crazy night out when we lived in Chicago and my mom was driving up for a girls' shopping day and I overslept at Virginia and Rebecca's and wasn't at my own apartment and my mom thought I was dead when I didn't answer the buzzer and she left about 10 voicemails where she's yelling into the phone "ARE YOU THERE???" and when I woke up I quickly showered and put on V's sweater and my jeans from the night before and some of Rebecca's perfume and took a cab to my own apartment and apologized to my mom because I'd never done anything like that before even though dude I was 23. Thank god for cell phones so when Ellie does this to me she can just text and say, "In the morning, can you just swing by my friend's place and pick me up because I'm sleeping over here tonight?" And I'll wake up at 3:30 when the phone goes off and thank the angels for helping her make smart decisions in not trying to get home on her own when she shouldn't and text back "yep. love you."

Anyway, I kept the soft black turtleneck sweater and moved it around my room from time to time until I found it again on top of my sweater pile last Friday.

And then here's what I did. I put on my current favorite lipstick (in butternut) and stood out in our messy living room and held out my iphone camera and turned until I found some decent light (just like my friend Viv taught me) and snapped a photo. Because of the messiness around me, I clicked a black and white filter and posted this photo with these words:

Years ago, Stacy and Clinton convinced me my body type can't wear turtlenecks, but I've kept this cashmere turtleneck sweater I bought at Lord & Taylor in the late 90s in Chicago because it was my first cashmere purchase with money I made in my real job after college. Today I set down that old story and look you in the eye and say, "Yes, I have a double chin and I'm still going to wear what makes me feel beautiful and full of light and love."

Of course I'm aware that in this photo you can't see my double chin because the sweater and the angle I took the photo hide it. But I have one and sometimes it really distracts me from feeling beautiful. And I cringe when I see certain photos from the side when my double chin is really more like a really big neck because I eat too much cheese and ice cream. I seldom post photos from the side because I don't want to look at this part of me and I really don't want you to look at it.

During the last ten years, I've come to a place of love for my body and all that it helps me do each day. I've found clothes that fit and make me happy. I take self-portraits to help myself feel deeply seen by me, the one person who deeply knows where I've been. I dance and do yoga and let my body do what it loves. And I've marveled at how this body grew a human and lived to tell the story.

But that doesn't mean that I don't get tripped up in the old stories from time to time or that I don't think about what some people might be thinking when they look at a body my size.

Moments like the one I captured above, where I remember one of those old stories and make the choice to set it down, become a powerful step toward continuing to love this body of mine. 

Turtleneck sweaters that make me very happy are now back in rotation baby!

I hope you can set one of your own stories down today.

Much love,
Liz 

PS If you're in a place where you need to find a softer self-talk and look at yourself with more love and kindness, I highly recommend Vivienne McMaster's class Be Your Own Beloved. It starts tomorrow and it will change your life (for real).

YES to gratitude {on being positive}

the you are not alone locket

Every now and then someone who has found me via Pinterest will comment on a pin or send me a note that says something like this, "How are you so positive all the time?" 

And in my head, my reaction is often, "Oh honey, if you only knew me."

But last Friday, as I was hammering lockets and pendants that will be going out across the miles this holiday season, I was thinking about this question. And the truth is when I push past that immediate need to hide a little or worry about what you would think if you saw the real "messy" me on a daily basis, this is what I find resting inside this idea of being positive:

I do believe that most of us are all doing the best we can each day. I believe that we each have hard stuff in our lives. Sometimes that hard stuff is huge and literally about life and death. Other times that hard stuff is the daily living stuff that piles up and feels heavy.

And in the midst of all of this, we want to know we are not alone. We want to know that we are loved.

Being someone who creates talismans that serve as a tangible reminder that we are not alone on this crazy, awesome, messy journey has become a way for me to be in touch daily with what I believe.

The act of literally hammering phrases like "I am enough" and "You are not alone" and "I am brave" and "hope lives here" and "deeply loved" pushes me to believe these things even on the hard days.

I am pushed to believe them because I know you believe them. How do I know? I've hammered thousands, yes thousands, of necklaces during the past few years filled with these phrases and words of the year and prayers.

And I've shared stories and quotes and other good things over on Pinterest and you keep saying, "Yes" and "Me too" and reaching out to say that you look at my pins each morning as you drink your coffee because they help you begin your day with a positive feeling in your heart.

You give me the gift of believing so that I know I am not alone over here holding onto these truths...tucking them into my pockets as I go about my day...as I experience the ebb and flow, the beauty and the mess, that each day brings. 

Thank you for this gift. I'm so blessed to do what I do each day.

*****

This November, I'm exploring the idea of saying YES to gratitude in all its gorgeous, sometimes confusing, heart-expanding ways. And I'm inviting you to come along on the adventure here on my blog.

Throughout the month, there will be a practice in letting others know I'm grateful for them, a few stories, a collaboration or two, inspiration from others, some giveaways, and a few other good things. 

You can find all the YES to Gratitude posts right here. 

you are worthy.

This morning, as I walked down the hall to the kitchen to have that first sip of coffee...after Ellie and Jon were off to school and I had finished replying to emails while in bed, something I do some mornings after she is dressed with her lunchbox full and out the door with her daddy...these words from Brian Andreas floated through the air from a corner of my mind.

There are days I drop words of comfort on myself like falling rain & remember it is enough to be taken care of by myself.

Brian Andreas, storypeople.com

The rolodex of memories that is sometimes a bit creaky these days turned to the first time I read that print at a little shop in Berea, Kentucky years ago. I was driving to my grandparents' house, South Bend, Indiana to Spartanburg, South Carolina, all by myself in my early 20s. It was the morning after I'd spent the night at a hotel in a town near Berea hoping that the boy I was friends with in high school would meet up with me and finally act on the feelings he'd told me he had for me senior year. I can hear my younger self wishing for him to show up with all her might. 

He didn't. 

The little shop in Berea was called Churchill Handweavers. When I was younger, my mom, my brother, and I would drive from South Bend to Spartanburg to visit my grandparents at least once often twice a year. And we would stop at Churchill Handweavers each time. They made blankets and you could tour the factory and see all these women handweaving blankets on huge looms.

When I was really little, I carried my "pink blanket" (that was its name) from Churchill Handweavers everywhere until it became so small that there was almost nothing left. I have the second "pink blanket" tucked away in Ellie's room. It was the one my mom got me as a backup for the day when "pink blanket" needed to move on.

The morning after the friend from high school did not show up to say, "Yes, I'm still in love with you," I stood in Churchill Handweavers reading through Brian Andreas prints, the shop cat "Charlie" brushing against my leg every now and then.

This was the same spot where my mom and I had stood a couple of years earlier just after my parents decided to divorce. It was the first time we'd found Storypeople. We looked through the prints for a very long time, our hearts broken in different ways yet side-by-side. We bought all the books available at that time and several prints and I can remember even in this moment the tangible feeling that some people really did think it was okay to write about the heartbreak of life in beautiful ways.

I read the stories out loud in the car for the next hour or two. My brother must have been playing his Gameboy in the backseat, headphones on, thinking the thoughts that only a 13-year-old boy can think when in the midst of divorce and a family's grief.

And even though all our pain was different and messy and often unspoken, in the midst of the laughter and gasps of recognition and tears these little stories read aloud provided, I felt a connection to my mother and believed that she understood things in ways I hoped she did. (The thoughts of a college freshman unsure if her parents could "get her").

A few years later, when I read those words about remembering "it is enough to be taken care of by myself," I decided to buy a big purple hand-woven blanket in that little shop in Berea, Kentucky. My grown-up "pink blanket" purchased with my own money. I wore it around my shoulders for the six-hour drive to Spartanburg, running my fingers through the fringe and singing George Strait songs on repeat as loud as I wanted.

During that drive, the blanket went from feeling like a cloak of protection that was holding my heart to a superhero cape of knowing I was enough even if this boy from high school never loved me.

I wrote pieces of this story to a friend in an email a few months ago, on a day when she needed someone to remind her that she is so very worthy of all that is to come in her life, that she can face whatever is to come with an open heart and still be rooted in what she knows because everything has led to this moment. I finished the story with these words:

That purple blanket is the blanket that is on my lap right now as I type this. And it is with the love and enoughness and worthiness and kindness that all of that story and this life to this moment holds that I am hugging you from over here and gently but clearly saying, "You are worthy. You got this. I am so proud of you."

As I sit here in my little house this morning with my cup of warm coffee in my hand and my purple blanket tucked around me, I'm giving myself the gift of believing these words, "You are worthy. You got this. I am so proud of you."

Maybe you need this reminder too today. Tuck it into your heart.

All of the moments before this one bring you to right here, to this moment where you can make a choice to believe: You are worthy. You got this. You can be so proud of yourself today.

Yes.

(I am so grateful to Brian Andreas for his words and art and the way he tells the true stories. If you aren't familiar with Storypeople, I'm a bit envious of you in this moment because your life is about to be changed. Head over here to read so many of his incredible stories.)

PS To receive little reminders and stories (a little shorter than this one) in your inbox, sign up to receive my (almost) weekly newsletter here.