just like that

this spot once held the beginnings of a steam-of-consciousness post. a post where i began to list in sentence form the reasons why the post would not be full of sparkles or something that would make you smile. how it would instead be full of truth and realness and sadness. there is so much i was going to say in that post.

but life kept interrupting. repeatedly. every few words. 

so in this moment, i come to this spot hours later and will say this instead:

millie, our other child who happens to be a golden retriever, almost died friday. just like that. the doctor was not sure she would survive the night. she then had emergency surgery saturday. and tonight, she is curled up beside jon's feet while he grades. just like that.

on friday afternoon, when ellie and i drove to the emergency vet clinic, a few minutes behind millie and jon, i explained why mama was crying. telling her that sometimes we cry when we are really afraid. explaining how mama loves millie very much and how she is my friend and how in my love for her, the thought of her dying made me scared and sad. and then i explained how millie has been my constant companion through some of the darkest days i have ever known. how she came into our lives in a very unexpected way and, just like that, she began to walk beside me through the deepest grief i have ever known; she began to walk beside us and taught us even more about love. i explained that this is what love is all about.

tonight, as i try to wrap my brain around having another patient who is healing in the house and now two notebooks full of feeding/medication schedules that sit side by side on the kitchen table, i find myself wishing upon wishing for a break from it all. wishing upon wishing for someone to walk through the front door and say, "i've got it right now girl. you can just rest for a while."

tonight as i type this, i take a break and turn to david whyte to try to remember the truth of what i know. his poem "the well of grief" does that for me. those words remind me of what i know about the truth of standing in this moment on my path. the truth of choosing to see all of it. the truth of living with my heart wide open.

tonight, i take a break for just a few minutes and turn up joshua radin as he sings into my ears and close my eyes and choose.

i choose.

i choose.

there are things i want you to remember {4}

you are a light in this world.

the beana and the book.

last night, the beana and i took a trip to barnes and noble.

and the book, the book that i wrote, was on a shelf. in barnes and noble. (right there behind the book by emily martin. the black apple. wow!)

i held up inner excavation and explained how this book is about looking at where we have been, where we stand on our paths, and where we want our next steps to take us.

i explained that it is about healing and remembering our younger selves and joy.

i explained that it invites people to find the poet waiting inside them and to dance inside photographs and to get messy with paint and paper and colors.

i explained that some amazing women share themselves in this book.

i explained that mama wrote it.

and, she basically rolled her eyes.

it was awesome.

this girl, she...

this girl, she sees all the other girls with their knee-high boots worn with skirts and skinny jeans and their oh my goodness how they make autumn look sexy looks. this girl, she wants a piece of that. a tiny piece is all she thinks she needs. but this girl, she is curvy and living inside a body that once held another body with the long not at all straight scar to prove it, and this girl is not feeling anywhere near sexy. no. this girl is a girl with legs that hold up her curvy self (that hold up this world some days). so this girl has known that these legs, her legs, will not find their way inside a pair of making autumn look a bit sexy, knee-high boots.

this girl is (sometimes) sitting inside wishing instead of being.

not today.

today, this girl wears these boots. these knee-high worn with a twirly dress boots.

yes.

today, she dances in her curvy body and lets go of the need to hold it all up. she lets go of the need to wish for someone other than herself.

today, this girl twirls inside the truth of who she is becoming.

four things.

1. i am getting outside with my camera again. thank you blue skies. thank you "you are your own muse." thank you ellie jane who likes riding in the moby.

2. this month, i am pretty much going to post everyday (aka nablopomo). or try to. (maybe even two times some days.) i want to find my words again. and sometimes i am going to turn off the comments. just because.

3. my little etsy shop is open again, and i have uploaded several new soul mantra necklaces. note that the "begin" limited edition fall necklace is available again for the next couple of weeks.

4. remember this post? the one where i mentioned this, "i want to sing to her until she joins in." well, it happened yesterday. ellie jane was hanging out in her bouncy seat pretty chill after a short nap. the house was quiet. i was working on jewelry, finishing the "tell your story" necklace, and suddenly, i was, of course, singing deb talan's song of the same name. as i was singing without really realizing it..."tell your story...don't stop talking, just tell you story walking"...she joined in. yes. yes. yes. (thank you for holding the space for me so i could find my way to this day.)

in the quiet, she

between

someplace between, this is where i see you. me. me (you) trying to find my (your) way. lost (at times) as the rain drums upon the roof. choosing (at times). i must seek the truth. so much energy pushed toward the spiral dance of figuring it (you) out. i fear i am parched from the seeking. then the truth whips through me again, tugging until i pay attention. it is not the seeking but the spinning. it is the fear of losing grip on the handle of all that i know. all that i (think i) know. the spinning pushes me away from myself (you). i am pushed toward all that i already know. someplace between (the knowing and the spinning), this is where i am.

the truth and the beauty (of all of it)

vivienne holding art by sabrina ward harrison

i am sitting inside some pieces of truth and beauty and pain and life and goodness all at once over here. and navigating these waters after having lived in survival mode for a long time has me feeling a bit tender. and i am okay in that "i know i am okay and life is full of such goodness" sort of way. but i also don't want to minimize or dismiss the whispers that are knocking about inside me, so i am also giving myself a little space to be honest with myself and a few trusted friends that my body, mind, and heart have been through so much this year. even though i deeply know how blessed we are that ellie jane is healing so well after such a huge surgery, i am aware that i have healing to do too. that i have pieces of my story that need to be shared inside the safe spaces of my life.

so after acknowledging these truths aloud last evening, it was with a tender heart that i began today. and when i had a moment just for me and i opened my laptop, the kind eyes of a dear friend were what i stared into as i looked at the image above in google reader, as i looked at an image that forced me to stop and feel and listen.

little did she know how much i needed to be seen in a way that someone invites you to feel seen when she snaps a photo of herself that reveals wisdom and truth and beauty.

this is the power of self-portraits and revealing ourselves to ourselves, and then, when we choose, to take the next step of revealing pieces of ourselves to others. this is the power of healing ourselves in a way that holds up a mirror for someone else.

yes.

*****

the woman in the photo above is my dear friend vivienne. she is teaching an online course called "you are your own muse" that begins monday. when i think about all that she invited me to look at with just this one photo, i am full of anticipation for all that i will uncover while taking her course. (and, i have it on good authority that a few spots are left.)

hope your weekend is full of joy and light,

liz