there are things i want to tell you

current studio altar

I want to tell you about the sound the rain is making as it drills onto the roof today. And then it taps. And then dances. And it is insistent. And almost relentless. And it has given me a rhythm to make sense of things.

I want to tell you about how it felt to sit in a classroom last evening and listen to someone talk about my child as a student. Suddenly I saw years pass in front of me, and I thought about how important my first, second, and third grade teachers were to me, and I imagined my own daughter sitting at a desk a couple of years from now watching how her teacher moves and talks to others and wanting to be like her. And I was so struck by the beauty of it all that I could have ugly cried right there.

I want to tell you about the synergy of collaboration and how there can be an exquisite awesome found when two people just show up as themselves and share without fear and with their hearts open to all the crazy and the brilliant. (And I want to tell you that this isn't always easy to find but it is always worth nurturing if you suspect it might be there.)

I want to tell you about the dream I had about my grandparents' house last night and how I could see every detail in every room and how just at the end of the dream I realized that someone else is living there now and I saw my hand writing those people a note of gratitude for holding the love in that house for me since I won't ever be inside it again.

I want to tell you about the way my heart feels extra big today (and I kind of don't want that feeling to ever go away even though it isn't quite comfortable).

I want to tell you about how this article takes my breath away. And I mean literally. I mean I'm still crying. And you should go and read it. Or save it for when you need to be reminded that life is about being "all in" to the last minute. But whatever you do, don't just pass over it. It is a must.

I want to tell you that you are not alone in it over there.

I want to tell you how grateful I am to know you are out there.

And you? What do you need to tell someone today?

***

Using the prompt "I want to tell you" is a favorite of mine. Today's post was inspired by the newsletter my friend Jenna sent out today. She has a new short writing ecourse that starts Sunday. It's all about writing into the heart of your story. And it is going to be so good. Check it out here.

the stories waiting inside

Tell Your Story tattoos (and happy bracelets) are in the shop

There are a few stories currently on a list in my head that are insisting on becoming words on the page. When this happens, I open up my favorite green Smash journal and add them to the "stories I want to tell" list.

Adding bits and pieces to this list feels really important; otherwise, the stories seem to fly through me. From the words Ellie Jane says to the bits of memories from long ago that will arrive unannounced, I keep adding snippets of stories to the list. 

Tonight, somewhere in the softness I'm trying to find these days and the quiet that arrives after she goes to bed, all I can think about is writing the story of what it really means to have someone catch you.

An invitation: If you don't already, begin to make a list of the stories waiting inside you. Stories from today, last week, and even 30 years ago. It is time...

just keep writing...

a little over a year ago, i wrote this short poem and shared it in this space:

today,

as i sit inside the missing

spring brings with her each year,

i pretend all of who you are

has arrived by chickadee wing

and your chosen path

is to slowly blow open

each petal of the crocus

As the rain falls while I write and answer emails from women who are opening their hearts to healing through creativity and sharing their stories, my own stories keep coming up and for some reason I thought of this poem.

Spring is all about my grandmother. So often as a child I would visit my grandparents in South Carolina during spreak break. Almost everything would be in bloom. And she would constantly comment on every single blooming plant we would see in their yard or driving in the car or walking by the lake. She was always chattering about the plants and the trees and the birds...and now I see she was always teaching me.

She died on a day in April seven years ago. And when I stepped out of the airport in South Carolina and stood on the curb waiting for my mother, I was forced to see that everything was in bloom. Everything. Purple. Red. Yellow. Orange. Fuschia. Light pink. Dogwoods. Azalias. Violets. Tulips. Redbud. Everywhere. When my mom drove me to the funeral home, I felt almost blinded by all the color that was such an over the top contrast to my cracked and starting to feel like it was crumbling heart.

When I returned home after her funeral, I didn't really notice Spring and how it gave way to Summer in my corner of the world. I was in the deep well of grief. But somewhere in that well, I found myself tumbling across a blog and then another one. And a bit of light started to get in. I started to carry my camera with me. I began to take notes about what I was seeing in the world. And the grief was thick. But I kept practicing yoga and taking photos and writing so I would not drown in it. And light kept coming in to those cracks in my heart that somehow did not crumble.

Almost a year later, I found myself somewhat bewildered that Spring would arrive without my grandmother's voice telling me about the flowers she had found blooming during her morning walk around her yard. Yet, Spring returned. And those flowers still bloomed across the country in my grandfather's yard. On the anniversary of her death, Gramps and I talked about how much we both missed her, and he told me the lily of the valley were almost ready to bloom.

On a day in March the following year, I remember sitting in the leather chair in my home office, looking out the window, and thinking about how the tulips were just pushing upward outside in my yard. And the missing hit me so hard I couldn't breathe for a moment. I just sat there with my heart hurting and my brain remembering. And I heard the chickadees singing in the cherry tree outside and this image came to me: Perhaps all that she was that is scattered in the world...scattered because of each breath, each conversation, each life path that crossed hers, each person that her children and grandchildren touched...that all of who she was is now part of the spirit that reminds each tulip and crocus and dandelion to bloom. 

I had the thought that perhaps she has just become part of Spring. Maybe she even is Spring now.

I sat there in that chair and wrote this poem:

On this day,
when the sun slips through the gray
and I hear the tulips push upward,
I know this:
Though I ache to lay my hand in yours
and walk around your yard
listening
as you name each stretching green shoot,
you are happier dancing in the wind
whispering
grow, grow.

Today, as I sit here in a coffee shop writing as the rain falls and the tulips begin to bloom because Spring has arrived again, I am thinking about how this image of my grandmother reminding Spring to begin keeps finding its way into my writing and my poetry. I am thinking about how this image is like a prayer that is helping to stitch my heart together in the way that life does because we make the choice to keep paying attention and living and noticing how simply brilliant it is.

And as I sit here thinking about how Spring has returned again, I am thinking about how I am here doing this work, living this life, because I spent time in that deep well of grief and found my way out through breathing and noticing and sharing the stories and listening. And I kept walking the path, and with each turn there would be someone else standing holding her story like a lantern saying, “Me too. I know. Yes. Me too.” And I found my way. 

I sit here watching the rain and wanting to get so damn mad at Spring for appearing again and reminding me of the deep missing, but I can I hear her whispering “grow, grow,” and so I just keep writing and finding my way.

brain lint :: journaling

The first sentence of this page of my journal says, "this is the page where i am going to just dump the stuff that i don't need to hold onto like worry and not enoughness and how the **** will i get it all done..." Since writing those words, I have turned to this page and filled it with uncensored fears when I get distracted while working.

The idea to do this came to me while I was working in my red Smash journal that houses ideas for my ecourses and other online projects I am working on. While putting these ideas to the page, I can find myself pulled by the "what ifs" and the "shoulds" and how the list goes on. On this day, I was writing down ideas for a possible ecourse connected to the project Jen Lee is producing that will be out later this spring (will share more about this project soon! we are having so much fun putting the finishing touches together before it all goes to print), and I had a flurry of a brainstorm that got me very excited. But then I got stuck as some gremlins came up. So I flipped through the journal to another section to give myself a break from thinking about this idea and came to this page that said, "Brain Lint." 

Yes.

Because this is exactly what the not enoughness is sometimes: lint that is just taking up space where something else could reside.

I love how my Smash journals often provide just the prompt I need when I am working. They really seem like magic sometimes. (Not kidding.) You can read the other posts in this journaling series inspired by my excitement over my first Smash book here.

An Invitation

Reserve a few pages in your journal for some uncensored brain lint. Let it be a safe space for you to let that not enoughness or the fears or the worry land so you can lean into the real work.

And consider joining us over in the Notes for the Journey Flickr group where we are sharing pages from our journals and where we are journaling. Also, if you are on Instagram, a group of us are using the hashtag #journeynotes when we share our journals. Oh and if you use an app like Instagram, you can easily use the blur feature to blur out your personal journaling but still share your photo. 

words

words written on a window . susan wooldridge workshop . fall 2010 be present retreat 
(steal a few and write your own poem. dare you.) 

A year ago, I was in the midst of the Fall Be Present Retreat while being days away from Ellie Jane's open-heart surgery. A year ago, I sat in a room in Frog Creek Lodge surrounded by so many souls living with their hearts wide open, souls who would teach me so much, souls who would become friends. A year ago, a dear friend came along on the retreat to support me and take care of Ellie Jane. A year ago, I had no idea what the first few weeks in October might bring. A year ago, I wrote these words during Susan Wooldridge's poetry workshop.

*****

parched bones

outside, i am a tree's sturdy blueprint
inside, i am a swollen canyon of january choices

outside, i am a balanced seasaw of chocolate happiness
inside, i am shattering, shifting parched bones

outside, i am a mute, screeching fire 
inside, i am sunlight's twirling laughter

inside, i am breath
i am space
i am light

*****

I am over here getting ready for Create Magic, the last Be Present Retreat this year. As I was bustling about a few minutes ago looking for safety pins in the random places they might be hanging out in this messy wondrous house of ours, I came across this poem written on the back of a page from a draft of one of Susan's writing projects. It was tucked in a drawer that was also housing receipts from 2009 and 2010 (don't tell the new accountant), adorably small pink tags I used for price tags when doing craft shows a few years back, polka dotted ribbon, a scale for mail, random bits of tissue paper, about $10 in change, safety pins, and a few other "why do I still have this?" little things.

And before I head off to bed, I just really need to tell someone this: I love poetry. Big.