here.

here a little one teaches us about resilience.

here a woman feels laughter shake out the cobwebs.

here the flowers are bursting with audible exhales.

here the hummingbird chirps.

here the sky appears with unexpected blue.

here is a dream about picking fresh berries.

here black pen slides across the blank page.

here the old story slips into the earth.

here there is a wondering, a sadness, a hope.

here the neverending cold is not fading.

here beads are wrapped, words are hammered, talismans are created.

here days are measured in mugs of tea.

here hand to heart, breathe in, breathe out.

*****

"Here" is on of my favorite creative prompts. You can use it to capture photos of what "here" looks like in your corner. You can try to make sense of your world with a poem note. You can make a list and add it to Project Life. You can fill up a whole page with here. Try it.

around here

 

Snow. It rarely happens, so looking out the window last night and seeing a couple of inches brought about feelings of pure joy inside. Each winter I miss my Midwest roots even while I hold the gratitude of never needing to shovel or drive in it anymore. Having it stick around all day today when we had no where to go was awesome. 

While Ellie was sitting on Jon's lap while watching the Olympics yesterday, this conversation happened:
Ellie: "Valentine's Day is a season of family."
Jon: "Did you make that up or did someone tell you that?"
Ellie: "No one told me and I did not make it up. Valentine's Day is a season of family!"
Me (softly to myself): "That was awesome."

The days leading up to Valentine's Day have been busy ones for my shop, and I'm deeply grateful. From parents sending daughters away at college little reminders that they are loved to so many beautiful souls buying the kindred necklace set with the intention of keeping one and giving the other to their dear soul friends to sisters giving their siblings sets of talismans, my heart is honestly smiling. 

In the midst of it all, Ellie's had an on-again off-again fever that has her going from leaning against me almost asleep to running around with endless energy with hardly a breath between. Intense. Lots of crafting and reading and watching movies and cuddling while she sleeps on me and forgiving myself when I lose it a wee bit and breathing deeply. (And yes, I did let her go outside for a few minutes because she was feeling better and, hello, snow! Because she has only been in it once before, her version of "playing" is "Mama, I must clean the snow off of all the furniture in the backyard." I had to stop her from moving on to cleaning it off the plants.)

And in the inbetween spaces, I'm working on something new that has me so darn excited. Like oh my goodness this is really going to happen excited. I'm feeling plugged in to the reasons why I'm here and what I want to share with you. And in this moment, I'm pausing right here as Jon reads to Ellie down the hall and I'm bringing my hands to my heart and taking five deep breaths saying softly to myself, "Just keep showing up as you and those who get it will come along and stand beside you. Yes." 

Sending love and light,
Liz 

a list of stories.

Over here I have a lot of stories humming about inside me. Stories I want to share with you. Stories I want to write into a journal. Stories that are almost begging to be put inside an art journal that is patiently waiting for me to dive into. Stories that need to be put down because they are getting too heavy to carry.

When I feel full to overflowing like I do today and know that I won't be able to get to these stories right now, I have to literally make a list of them so I don't forget. The truth is that they can kind of escape when the overflowing happens. The lines and ideas that are weaving there way around my mind and heart might escape through a side door and find someone else. So I have to get something onto a page.

Sometimes I add to the list in my green Smash journal. Sometimes I literally make a list on the bathroom mirror. Sometimes I just grab any paper I can find and start writing and then tape that paper to the wall of my studio (I've learned that I must tape it up or it will get lost.)

Most importantly I remind myself over and over again that it is okay to tell the true stories. The uncertainty around this can come up when the list writing begins. I find myself pausing and thinking, "Oh not that one. I can't write about that one." 

But this is the magic of the list. It is just ideas onto the page. It is a space to hold the stories until you can unpack them into more details and into another container that will gather the details. That next container might be a blog post, a story for my newsletter, an ecourse, a story I want to tell at one of my retreats, or even pieces of a new book.

What do you do when the stories are overflowing inside? Do you make a list? Do you ignore them? Do you pretend that you don't really want to tell them? Do you just start writing, creating, painting, playing?

true stories pocket talisman in the shop

My hope for you is that you seek out the spaces where you feel safe to tell the true stories: a journal, with a friend, on a stage, on your blog, in a private community, and how the list goes on. You deserve to tell your true stories honey.

Yes.

PS Updating this to add that I love Glennon Doyle Melton's take on letting the idea go when your hands are full. So if you suddenly have a story idea appear while you are in the middle of something in your life that needs you more than the story does, it's okay to let it go into the wind. Maybe it will come back to you; maybe it will move on. Believing in abundance is a very good thing.

the choice to be right here

Last night she curled up in bed with me and put her cheek against mine, using my face almost like a pillow, because she said she just couldn't get close enough to me. "You're just so cuddly Mama Kitty. I love how cuddly you are."

And I made the choice to just stay right there, listening to her breathing, feeling her body snug against mine. 

She should have been sleeping. Her bed time was 90 minutes before this moment. She's in a phase of not wanting to go to bed. Each night she tries on various techniques all with the purpose of spending more time with us. Writing it out like that, it sounds so sweet. But it has been intense. And I keep trying on different ways to be a parent. And some nights I feel my patience and Jon's thin as we crave even just five minutes to ask each other "How are you?" and have the space to answer with adult words.

Last night, as I made that choice to just hold her closer as we were then nose to nose, our heads sharing a pillow, I said, "You can stay until Daddy comes to bed. Then you have to go sleep in your bed." I made the choice knowing tonight she will more than likely try to say she must cuddle with me or she won't be able to sleep and how the list of three-year-old excuses will go on.

But I did it anyway. 

Looking into her blue eyes. Watching the way they slowly began to close even though she insisted she wasn't tired. Feeling her arms come around my neck as she kept saying, "I just love how cuddly you are Mama." Soaking it up because she is usually on the move and so rarely wants to cuddle. Letting myself be right there, imprinting it inside me so the me of 15 years from now will be able to unpack it and hold it close on the days I'll most need it.

I've found that often just being right here is the best parenting move I've got.

(And no, that photo isn't connected to the story in this post. It is from a few weeks ago when we made another choice to just be right here and soak up a day without rain even though it was cold and there were lots of orders for me to work on and a house to clean before visitors and things on the to-do list. But this moment was such a gift. I so rarely remember to take my big camera with me these days. This photo is to remind me to keep doing it. And to keep getting them outside because we all need it so much.)

i'm learning to ask and listen

Yesterday, Ellie was sitting on my lap and asked me what my necklace said. I explained it said, "Wildness" and that it is my word of the year. I talked about how I'll be inviting in more wildness in my life. 

She nodded in that way a three year old does when she's listening and thinking and taking it in.

Then I asked her, "What is your word of the year? What do you want this year to be like for you?"

And she looked me right in the eyes and said, "My life is good and calm and kind."

"Those are the things you want to invite into your life this year?"

"Yes."

"Me too."

I think wildness and good + calm + kind are going to be fantastic companions this year.

(And pairing this story with this photo this might have been the moment I decided to get back to Project Life. Yes.)

happy 2014

Eleanor Jane :: January 1, 2014 

May your year unfold
with kindess,
light,
ease,
peace,
joy,
and love love love.

Eleanor Jane :: January 1, 2013

2011 :: 2012

We continue the tradition of the New Year's Day photo of EJ in her shirt.

This year it doesn't cover her belly, and that makes me so darn happy because she is thriving!

She's decided she must wear it all day because "Woodstocky" (as we call him for "cutes") is one of her new favorite things.

And I have to share this one too. Because it just makes me smile so big.

Happy New Year to you and yours.

I really hope this year is full of kindness and love.

over here

The last few weeks have been full and beautiful and hard and so very good. There have been incredible conversations and a trip to urgent care and deep understanding and laughter through tears and a visit from my mom and trips to Portland and wide hugs and a bit of letting go and time in a salt water hot pool. Oh yes. Beauty in one hand, messy in the other. The usual. And I look forward to sharing some stories soon. For now though I'm just going to share these peeks and take a deep breath and enjoy a dear friend who is visiting for the week and work on my holiday Soul Mantra collection and breathe in and out some more.

Soul Sisters was really wonderful. As in, you should think about putting it on your calendar for next year. I'm putting it on mine.

(Jenna took photos 1 and 7. The snippet of poetry is "Voices" by Naomi Shihab Nye from her collection Red Suitcase. It took my breath away unexpectedly last week and is now one of my favorite poems of all time.)

here

here there is the push and pull of being a three year old.

here there is laughter between old friends.

here there is exhaustion stacked right next to please let this get easier.

here there is a quiet understanding.

here there is an exquisite salad of beets + goat cheese.

here there is a new haircut that feels like home.

here there is the neverending headcold of October.

here there is support and love and an ease unfolding.

here there is another layer shedding slowly but perhaps at exactly the right pace.

yes.

(because sometimes you just need to make a list to make sense of things.)

and how are things over there? i'd really love to know.