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Filtering by Tag: remembering


liz lamoreux

me and my dad . 1981

It was the year that changed everything. It was the year when my family went from three to four when my baby brother was born on a day in April. And a piece of my story is that I will never forget the way that both of my parents made sure that I always felt deeply loved.

In families there is always stuff.


I wish we would give ourselves more space to just know that this is true. We experienced stuff as children, and we create it now (even if we sometimes don't want to admit it). Every family has it, which is why I feel it is so important to share our stories so that we know we aren't the only ones.

And today, I was thinking about this stuff, and the truth that there is, for me, so often love in the midst of it all.

(Thank you for that.)

May you find your way to love today.




liz lamoreux


writing reading working


now: neighborhood children giggle and yell and run under the peeking through grey sunshine as i sit cross-legged in the middle of my bed wrapping wire around beads and stringing them together to soon be sent across the sea to become a talisman of words another wants to hold close to her heart.

yesterday: a cafe full of chattering, eating, meeting people, i weave between the tables trying to find a place to call my own where i can sip this mug of chai and write and remind myself that i do know what step to take next even though the uncertainty sometimes slips around me like a cloak i don't remember buying in a dusty flea market another lifetime ago.

the day before: when she refuses to get in the car, we walk along the sidewalk passing storefronts and cars with "you have to hold my hand" said aloud on repeat, and then we turn and do it again because she has no need to understand the stacked up inside my head to do list that includes "picking up the taxes" on the line right after the doctor's appointment we just completed.

the kindred project: day 7 (traveler)

liz lamoreux

The Kindred Project: 12 Days of Light and Yes is about sharing our stories of light and hope. The moments where we said "yes" to choosing beauty in the midst of it all. The moments where we stood in our own light. The moments where we saw someone else choose hope. The moments where another became our teacher and where we taught ourselves. Read more about the project and share your own stories in this post. During these 12 days, I am sharing a few of the lights along my path that have pushed me and taught me and held me in the midsts of it all. 



traveler and me . washington coast, july 2004

this evening, an audio post that includes a senses memory and just a few thoughts about how traveler taught me about love and grief.

(just click on june 2 below to hear it; it is about seven minutes long)

thank you so much for sharing your own stories throughout this little project i am doing. today, i would love to hear your stories about the animals in your life who teach you...

june 2

you will.

liz lamoreux



i can hear you laughing as though someone might just be about ready to tickle you. you laugh so loud and long until you can hardly breathe. i wonder what time of day it is and what happened five minutes ago, five hours ago in your world. i see you, a little girl who has a little brother as evidenced by that plush ball perfect for a crawling baby brother in the photo. i see you and know that in this moment you felt just as loved as you did before he came into the world. before you wished on a penny at geno's and came back to the table to inform everyone you had wished for a baby brother. i know that sofa that pulled out into a bed where your grandparents would stay when you moved to the house on oak road. but now, now that sofa is in the family room and i can see the green chair and the built-in bookshelves and hear the rolling stones or is it neil diamond now playing on the record player. i see that you are safe in this moment of from the depths of your soul laughter. i see that you are smiling that huge showing the gums smile that people who really know you see when you feel safe. i can see you and hear you and imagine how soft your cheek might feel if you rushed up to the person taking this photo and hugged that person so close so you nuzzled your cheek against his neck and breathed in aqua velva and love. 

i think about all this as i sit here feeling a baby move inside me. this baby we've been told is a daughter moves inside me tonight and i call my mother to tell her and then, i sit inside the circle of it all and remember how loved you are, how loved we are. and even though the road to this moment of contentment and truth will be filled with so much you cannot even imagine and it won't always be safe to smile and be you and wish on pennies, in this moment of giggles and looking into the camera, know that you will find your way. 

yes, baby girl, you will find your way.

november 14

liz lamoreux


me and my dad . long ago

i hear the laughter and the sounds from the carousel as we spin spin spin and go up and down and pretend we are flying. i smell the popcorn and see all the faces from up above. i taste a tinge of fear with the excited butterflies in my belly. i feel my hair flying around me and then i grip the side again as soon as i finish waving. as the deflated, oh we are going down now sound signals the end of this adventure, i hear myself, "can we go again?" but then we are off to peter pan or mr. toad's or the people movers, which i can never get enough of. this laughter. this "yes, we can go again." this holding onto a hand you trust. this is what i know.

november 6

liz lamoreux


hello there you
with your incredible pants
and cheeks
and wispy hair
look at you standing tall
although perhaps unsure
between, i am guessing, a buick and a chevy
something tells me this might have been a moment of good-bye
one last photo snapped before they backed out of the driveway
to head over the hills and mountains toward home
saying good-bye was really never your thing
still isn't
waiting to cry until later
when everyone else has left
yes, this is what you do
how i wish i had those pants
i would turn them into patches of a quilt
to be made for someone destined to be your size one day
those searching eyes
one foot then the other
this is what we know 

a mirror at 121.

liz lamoreux

my brother . me :: april, 2009

this morning, for the first time in more than forty years, it is possible that someone else woke up and padded into the bathroom first thing to find himself looking into this mirror. this person would find himself looking into this mirror that is on the wall in a bathroom in his new home.

i know that feeling that might have come up when sleepy eyes adjusted to new surroundings, that "oh my goodness we bought our first house and today we woke in our new home" feeling. it is a beautiful, embarking on a new journey that is your life, your real life, sort of feeling.

i sit here in this moment and give myself permission to sift through my own feelings that come up as my heart reaches toward another coast, toward this home and this mirror and the memories of so much time spent with my grandparents in this home that now belongs to someone else.

i sift through the ache and the sadness and the joy of the blessing that was a friendship, a real friendship, with my grandmother. i sift through the echoes of my grandfather's last words to me the day before he died. i sift through the feelings that cause me to simply sit with confusion about how a person's life just ends one day.

my brother said to me recently as he sifted through his own feelings after just learning that a friend his age had died quite suddenly...he said, "you know liz, we can just die at any moment."

this simple truth is one that we seldom think about. we rush about our lives and worry about so much. we focus on so many things that do not matter. we forget to simply be present and experience and instead worry about missing a television program or why someone hasn't emailed us back quickly enough or if people even like us.

jon and i were driving a few weeks ago and i was telling him some story about my childhood and i suddenly stopped and said something like, "if we only understood that we would want to remember every second." i wish i could tell my five-year-old self to breathe in a moment spent by lake edwin johnson learning to skip rocks. what were the sounds? the smells? how did my grandfather's hand feel when he touched my head to tell me i was doing great? i wish i could ask my five-year-old self to tell me about every second of that afternoon.

for a project i am working on, i have been spending time looking at old photos of my family. while doing this, i have been closing my eyes and trying to remember pieces of the moments captured and then writing about what i remember or what comes up as i look at the photo. such a beautiful exercise this is as i do believe so much is tucked inside this brain and heart i carry around with me. i do believe that even though we don't remember every second, we do remember so much. and these photos of our past, even before we came to be, make up pieces that make up us. i am going to share a few of these writings paired with photos every now and then (like i did here)...maybe you will want to join me with your own photos and memories...

and in this moment, as i sift through feelings and allow myself to sit in the quiet, i think about that first day of waking up in your new home feeling and i feel my face relax and my shoulders settle into my body and my heart opens just a bit. someone else's life is beginning. another couple has a story to tell and lives to live and perhaps even create. it is beautiful. it is the cycle of life.

(a little about the photos above. when we were in south carolina in april, i took a lot of photos inside and outside my grandparents' home. at some point, my brother picked up my camera and took a few. when i returned home, i found that we had both taken photos in this mirror in my grandparents' bathroom. i love this.)

remembering: sounds

liz lamoreux

evening drink

her voice saying "come on" as she insists we walk around outside right after breakfast
the ritual of water running as soap is squirted and dishes slide, then knock together
flip flops clopping as we walk to the indoor pool and giggle when we see that again we have it all to ourselves
the guest room/her bedroom door creaking as she peeks to see if i am awake yet
the brush placed on the vanity when she finishes brushing her hair
laughter as she watches my brother and me slide down the backyard hill in our green sleds
her annoyed voice saying "honey" when i try to test her just a bit
the word "hello" just after my grandfather hands her the phone
the wooden spoon stiring sloppy joes on the stove

there is more...so much more...but i can't seem to find it tonight...the sense of seeing wants to take over the memories, but i want to remember the sounds...the sounds of almost thirty years of love and laughter and friendship and home...i want to remember how her voice said every word to me. but i can't. it seems lost tonight...but it was yesterday as i stood in the kitchen and began to measure flour and baking powder and nutmeg that i heard her voice. i heard her and i realized why i have stayed out of the kitchen these last few years. why i have come up with excuses to let jon cook most of the time or to get takeout. me, a person who actually likes cooking. it is because as soon as i start measuring things, i think about her. i think about calling her and asking her a question but then i have to remember that she isn't there. it happens almost everytime. i used to call with questions i didn't really have just to have an excuse to talk to her about cooking or house stuff as she was so proud to help me figure out my first home and cooking for my husband and all that wife stuff. and i wanted to learn from her and hoped she would feel good helping me as life seemed to be slipping away. i think though...i think i am going to try to spend a bit more time in the kitchen because maybe...maybe if i spend time measuring and turning the pages of cookbooks and filling the house with the smells of home i will remember the sounds...i will remember the sounds of her voice and it won't seem quite like it is all slipping away with each day that passes...maybe she will travel back to me for just a moment and i will remember.