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the view from here

liz lamoreux

may 22 view journal

writing notes to myself filled with the words i most need to here and hiding them in my journal so i will find them again just when i need them.

working hard on several project launches and giving myself permission to just experience it all as it unfolds.

celebrating the joy that is true collaboration.

dancing with ellie to donna summer on repeat.

sitting on the backporch and watching the rain rain rain come down down down.

anticipating next month's your story retreat and the goodness that awaits.

cleaning up after millie and ellie. a lot.

catching up on the last few weeks of project life (and still loving it).

delighting in the "helping" ellie has been doing lately as she takes one piece of laundry at a time from the laundry room to our bed or her chair in her bedroom.

feeling deep gratitude for our kind babysitter.

noticing the little ways jon is helping in the evenings.

trusting a little more with each breath.

for three minutes

liz lamoreux

 

soaking up the sun

 

For three minutes today, I stood at the kitchen table wearing my favorite apron, drinking a fizzy cherry coke, and gathering supplies for a new project that I can't wait to begin.

For three minutes, the windows were open and the sun was coming through them and ideas were buzzing about.

For three minutes, I was touching at the edge of getting into a flow while she napped.

Then, suddenly it became clear that she hadn't really fallen asleep and had no plans to.

So everything shifted.

Outside we went for sunshine and ball bouncing and snacking and that fizzy coke spilling all over my favorite apron and a quick change and more snacks and lots of seeing how fast she could run into one of mama's big hugs on repeat.

And really it was all just as it was supposed to be.

An invitation: Give yourself the gift of letting it be just as it's supposed to be today.

here

liz lamoreux

here: a father and daughter giggle and chatter and dance to music he grew up on while i gather up the pieces of all that will be and choose to trust what i know.

yesterday: waiting between gates 12 and 14, she dances and giggles and bops her head while i sing more than 30 rounds of "old mcdonald" and think about how three generations really can travel across the country together very well as long as there is plenty of apple juice and singing.

the day before: alone in my eagle's nest home away from home, adele sings while i move across the floor with my arms raised and my voice loud and my feet turning in circles until the music until the movement until i rewrite the story i have been playing for much too long and find myself regrounded and renewed.

::this is me::

liz lamoreux

 

here. #nowyouworkshops

here (photo inspired by this week's now you workshops prompt)

This is me. Me weaving words and chocolate mint ice cream and striped socks and long oh-my-god-i-am-finally-alone showers into a life. This is me. Me gathering plastic zoo animals and fruit loops and suddenly the gentlest words I could ever hope to hear and tucking them into the pockets hidden under my skin. This is me. Me pushing myself to sift through what was and hold what might be in softly cupped hands. This is me. Me choosing trust in this second and the next and the one after that. This is me. Me hearing their laughter and looking down to find another stitch sewn into my heart. This is me. Me finding my way to rest and relearning and listening.

This is me choosing to open myself to all of it again and again.

*****

Sometimes sitting in the quiet and giving myself the space to just let the words tumble out of me reminds me that I am not alone. If you are looking to create space to pause and listen to the words you most need to hear (to listen to your own words), consider coming along for the next session of Create Space that begins May 6. In this class, we explore creating sacred space in our homes, in our days, and within us using the tools of writing and poetry, photography, and be present practices that invite you to be right here in this moment to notice what you need. Learn more and register here

here

liz lamoreux

glimpses of a toddler dinner

Last night, I dreamed an owl stood guard atop the wardrobe in the room I am sleeping in in this house across the country from my home. I keep thinking about her standing there (surrounded by a few small hopping swallows that had snuck in with her), and I see her orange beak and regal, certain presence.

Tonight, as I sit with these new rhythms and textures that surround me, I will close my eyes and ask her to come again in the hopes that she will guide me as I find my way.

(Ellie and I are tucked inside my mom's gorgeous new home that she and her partner Steve built in Northern Wisconsin. We are staying for a bit so Ellie can sink into some good time with her grandparents and I can work and maybe even rest. Looking forward to sharing more from here.)

here

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.

over here poeming (and artfesting)

liz lamoreux

 

settling in

 

I'm having one of those "oh my goodness I am so lucky" sort of days as I am tucked into a quiet I am the only one around living room in a bed & breakfast in Port Townsend watching the rain roll in across Puget Sound as I work on the Poem It Out ecourse.

This trip was a bit unexpected (in a very welcomed way) and here I am with a day and two nights at the B&B before I take Mindy Lacefield's workshop at Artfest on Saturday and then head home. While I am here, I am connecting with friends who are here for Artfest or live nearby and through it all I am coming back to center through laughter and companionship and solitude and words. 

The truth is, life is full of so much that isn't said in a blog or in a Facebook status, and I really needed this time to just take care of me. 

Today, I am surrounded by poems and prompts and am actually dancing with excitement about this new class. I suppose one might even say that today I am in fact poeming it out over here. My current favorite collection of poetry is called What Have You Lost? edited by Naomi Shihab Nye. This book is full of laugh out loud poems and poems that take my breath away with their exquisite sadness. I am soaking up its inspiration...

And you? What are you up to over there in your corner of the world?

here

liz lamoreux

here #journeynotes

this week, i have been leaning into rest. i have been reading (just for fun) and working in bed while she naps and even napping once or twice. jon and i went on an impromptu valentine's day date (the babysitter had come over so i could work, but instead jon picked me up and we had an early dinner...it felt like breaking the rules in the best of ways). i have been trying to get to bed earlier. and i've been trying to observe myself with a more compassionate focus.

i am noticing that life feels softer when i rest more. i feel softer. i am more likely to move through my day with kindness and love (toward myself, toward others). it seems so obvious but it simply is hard for me to remember some days (and weeks it seems). 

tonight, i am thinking about how the remembering feels like a dance of getting to know myself again and again. and i choose to see this as a beautiful gift i give myself. because there will be days full of overwhelm and misunderstandings and forgotten deadlines and unexpected bumps in the road. but i will keep reaching for compassion, and i will try to remember that rest is so often the answer.

the poem that is pasted into my journal in the photo above is "love after love" by derek walcott. it is about remembering yourself. i keep it in constant rotation over here. i invite you to add it to your self-care toolbox. you can read all of this poem over here.