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Filtering by Category: real

storytending

liz lamoreux

This is one of my favorite photos I took this year. I'm in my mother's home alone while Ellie was out playing with her grandparents.

At the time, being alone wasn't an experience I'd had very often since Ellie's birth. In this captured moment, I'm surrounded by books and words and poetry and idea journals. I was in the middle of teaching the first Poem It Out course, which was truly a highlight of 2012. Ideas were swirling, and I felt rested for the first time in months. And I was making lists of the stories I wanted to tell and brainstorming the right containers for those stories.

In the last two years, I've begun to really focus on sharing my work through stories. It literally feels like I think in stories these days. In some ways, that's been the case since I began blogging and perhaps from the time I was a little girl and headed out the backdoor into the small bit of woods we had with my favorite book and peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

At my retreats, I often think of myself as a storycatcher as I listen and share words back and forth with women. And when we circle in person or in my online courses, I do think of myself as a storyteller.

Lately though, when I'm sifting through the stuff that sometimes piles up in the corners inside me, I'm beginning to see myself as a storytender. I'm being gentle with myself and these stories in the same way I cared for the little tendril of green that grew in the milk carton in the windowsill of my first grade classroom when we grew zinnias for our mothers that year. I'm trying to really notice so I can add water and open the windows for some fresh air and create space for rest. 

As I look to 2013 and the ways I hope my business and family life will shine, I'm taking time to sift through a few stories. In little bits of time, literally five minutes here and ten there and two over there, I'm tending to the places I've been, the hurt that rests there, the joy that needs to be felt again, the beauty that insists on revealing itself.

Even though this can feel thick and even sticky, it creates space inside me so that I can live with my heart open to all of it: the joy, the hurt, the beauty, the shit, the silly, the love, the light.

And this life is what I want to choose again and again and again.

Join me in tending to your stories. Notice what needs to be watered...what needs to be free.

Let yourself rest in the truth you find. 

*****

For more notes from me about making the choice to tell the true stories and other adventures into creative self-care, sign up for my (almost) weekly newsletter that is really more like a love note from my heart to you.

leaning. listening.

liz lamoreux

leaning into softness, warmth, and the joy of snow. #wateryoursoul

pausing in the dusting of snow we had for a few hours

Over here I'm leaning into softness and drinking mugs of spicy tea and letting in the grief and distracting myself with an audio book and several rounds of Mahjong and turning up the Christmas music and baking banana bread and noticing the ways I am loved and watching the wind blow from the kitchen window and trying to loosen my grip on expectations and wearing my favorite clothes and finding more patience inside me than I ever thought I could uncover and trying to remember that I can let in more ease with each breath.

Each day, I'm trying to create the space to listen to what I most need as I navigate what this season holds this year.

I do this for me because this is the only way I know how to make sense of this crazy, beautiful life. And because I trust that when I can show up as my most real, true self, I am also showing up for others in the ways they need me to.

What do you need?

Give yourself the gift of listening to that answer today.

the true stories

liz lamoreux

This afternoon I was working in the studio and went into my storage area to grab a few shipping supplies and there it was. This box that I somehow still have in my home after thinking we had gotten rid of it on at least five different occasions.

When I saw it there buried under a box of tags I send with my jewelry, my mind whirled for a minute and then I said aloud, "It's okay to tell the true stories."

So here I am telling it. This piece of the bigger story I just keep unpacking a little at a time as I heal and crack open and mend.

This is the story of a cardboard box that holds the infant CPR DVD and inflatable infant "manikin" that they sent home with us after Ellie Jane was hospitalized at five weeks old.

She was only 7.75 pounds and we were trying to comprehend all that was happening with her heart. Trying to understand that she now had two unrelated heart issues and that she would be going on four medications.

I remember the moment when Jon explained that we had to watch the DVD before they would let us go home. I wonder if he thought I looked like a ghost in that moment when I looked up from holding Ellie who was attached to so many things and just stared at him.

So often during those five days, I felt like a floating head as I stuffed all my feelings into my big toe so I could be ready to make whatever decisions were coming our way.

This is why I started taking mirror photos of how I really felt...so I would know I wasn't disappearing.

When I read about other mothers nuzzling with their little ones who are just weeks old and how they are amazed at how fast they are growing, I think about that ghost of a woman who looked at the nurse and said, "Yes, we will watch the DVD. But I am not practicing on that baby in that box right now." I think about that ghost of a woman who was trying to heal from a c-section while navigating motherhood and all that newborn life brings, and I want to hold her gently in my arms and run my fingers through her hair while she cries herself to sleep.

The true story is that I ache every now and then when I think about the first year of Ellie's life. The true story is that we were sent home with an inflatable baby three days after our own baby almost died and all I could think about was if I didn't keep her alive all I would have left was that box. The true story is that the mending is messy. The true story is that somewhere between there and here I began to realize I need to gently keep mothering myself. 

Sometimes the triggers, the boxes buried under the everyday, become moments where we can just breathe in the truth of what we know and notice what comes up and honor all of it as we create the space to heal just a little bit more. 

emails to myself

liz lamoreux

While working on current projects, ideas for new ones (or old abandoned ones) always start flowing. #stillheartmysmashbooks

(dreaming in my red smash book)

Last night, I was in the midst of working on a blog post for Chickadee Road after everyone else was long asleep and my daughter Ellie Jane started coughing in that way you do when you have a chest cold. After a few moments passed and it was clear she needed me, I went into her room and gathered her in my arms to rock her for a while. She kept coughing, so I suggested that we go into the bathroom and run the shower because the steam would make her feel better. 

We took her blanket and her favorite big Mickey stuffed animal and into the bathroom we went. With just a small light on so it was mostly dark, we cocooned in there with the shower running until water ran down the walls and she stopped coughing.

As we sat there and I could feel the steam expanding my lungs too, memories of doing this as a child tapped at the edges of the moment. After Ellie went back to sleep, I headed back out to my spot on the couch to finish working in what had become the middle of the night. I closed my eyes for a moment to recenter. A mama running her own business working in the minutes she can catch here and there. A little girl experiencing her first chest cold and how different my life is now that a little one relies on me to "make it better" and know what to do. Memories of my own bouts of bronchitis and pneumonia as a child and how the coughing would hurt my whole body. 

And then I thought about my mom and those moments tucked in next to her in the little bathroom in that home on Garland Circle. The shower running and filling up every space with steam. I wanted to capture the whirling thoughts and opened an email and wrote, "This moment: Feeling thankful for the hours my mother sat with me in the bathroom until I stopped coughing as the shower steam ran trails of water down the walls. Did this with Ellie Jane tonight and I wish I could hug my mother's younger self and say, "One day she will have a child and she will know."

I emailed this note to myself with the subject "this moment november 12."

So often thoughts like this come to me in the quiet in between spaces where I am shifting from one role to the next, and my mind feels so full of stuff that they sometimes get lost. Last night, as those words arrived, I wasn't sure where I wanted them to land. I might want to send them in a little note to my mom or record this memory in Project Life or even write a poem about it all. And today, I'm so glad I gave those words a place to stay contained, so I could read them again this morning. I think I might start sending more emails to myself when this happens, using the subject "this moment" so I can easily find them.

*****

 

I shared this story with my newsletter subscribers earlier this week and felt moved to share it here with you today. To receive notes like this one about my real stories about self-care, sign up for (almost) my weekly newsletter.

ninja warrior :: a story, a soul mantra

liz lamoreux

ninja warrior . in the shop

This is me.

Ninja warrior me.

The me who holds a lunch box, juice cup, backpack, purse, and coat in one hand and picks up her toddler with the other.

Who uses words + a camera as secret weapons of peace and truth.

Who sifts through all of it to love fiercely. Me.

The me who puts a chicken to roast in the oven, colors with crayons, cleans up dog vomit, changes her clothes in the middle of the kitchen, reassures and stays calm all in under three minutes.

Who moves through roles almost seamlessly without even needing a costume change.

Who translates toddler code and social media babbling.

Who feels like she's undercover whenever she walks into Target alone.

Me.

Ninja warrior me.

The me who navigates unchartered lands and keeps her head above water even when she is terrified.

Who hides her stealth behind layers, ruffles, and knee-high red boots.

Yes.

Me.

Ninja warrior, sitting in the quiet, dancing in the beauty, honoring the realness, standing tall in all of it, learning how to rest, me.

***

This weekend, I made this locket for myself because I needed to simply own that being a woman is to be a ninja warrior sometimes. 

I shared it on Instagram and after getting a couple of emails about it, I've added it to the shop in case you need one too. Or you can customize this same locket with your own "this is me" phrase. (If you want help brainstorming your "this is me" phrase for your locket, just send over an email.)

May you stand tall as your warrior, peacemaker, real, beautiful self today.

(Thank you to Jen for our conversation a few months ago where she said that sometimes mamas are ninja warriors. I've held onto this phrase daily since then.)

thoughts from here

liz lamoreux

I think this could be called, "The one where I muse about how I think our soul chooses our family and how my role isn't to keep Ellie beside me so I can grab her hand when I need it and how it all connects to daycare and making the best choices for our family." It's about 13 minutes, so settle in with a cup of tea and a muffin or a glass of wine and dark chocolate.

But if that doesn't appeal, well, come back Monday for another story...And if it does, trust that I really mean the part at the end about continuing the conversation about the things we are "afraid" to blog about.

Anyway, these were thoughts that needed to tumble out of me yesterday afternoon even though I wasn't wearing any make-up and my hair needs a little something something and this morning, my heart tells me to share them here.

I mention my yoga teacher Laura Yon Brooks and one of her teachers, Eric Klein, in the video.

Happy weekend,

Liz

i want to remember

liz lamoreux

hello cute new happy shoes that match my studio

where i stand

Today is Ellie's sixth day of daycare, and the first day where I've pulled up to our house with the backseat quiet and felt a deep tug of missing her. Not that I haven't missed her while she has been there the other days. But this time alone in my studio, in my home, has given me space I haven't had in more than two years. The space I create for other women, but haven't myself had for long stretches of time: space to just be me.

It feels as though fractured pieces of me are reaching out to one another and pulling me back together.

And this is good. And part of the beauty and truth of being open to noticing.

As I was sinking into my day today, I was thinking about how I am about five weeks behind with Project Life. Summer was so full and the awesome chaos of it didn't leave time for it. And I don't want to spend time worrying about catching up and then not capturing this transition of this new schedule and way of living for our family.

That tug of missing was inviting in the overwhelm.

But then I went to Ali's blog today and she gave me a place to begin with the wonderful prompt: I want to remember.

off she goes...

this morning as we left for school

I want to remember the way Ellie carries her lunchbox each day as she walks out the door, but then she turns around to hand it to me before she walks down the steps because it is "too heavy."

I want to remember our morning routine: Jon gets up and gets ready for work. Then he wakes me up, and he goes to the kitchen to make breakfast. I get dressed and most mornings I hear Ellie begin to stir in her room. When I go in to get her, we stretch and then talk about the day's plan as we choose her clothes. Then we eat breakfast with Jon. Then he leaves for work; we brush our teeth; and then we get her lunchbox and head out the door to go and see her new friends. 

I want to remember the exquisite silence of being alone.

I want to remember that sitting at the table for dinner invites in another layer of intimacy and connection.

I want to remember watching Ellie on the slide over and over again when she didn't realize I was at school to pick her up.

I want to remember hearing Ms. A say to Ellie, "Eleanor Jane, you crack me up, you know that?" and Ellie saying so loudly, "Yeah!"

I want to remember how she held on to me after a rough day and found comfort in the quiet space between us.

I want to remember the look on her face when her daddy gets home.

I want to remember that Millie and I hang out in the studio together all day and I often get to listen to her soft snores.

I want to remember the pure joy I felt playing with fabric and thread and paper again.

I want to remember the way Ellie walks up to her friends to tell them "ba-bye."

I want to remember how she bravely gets down from my arms each day and walks to Ms. A even though she doesn't want me to go.

I want to remember the brave way I get in the car each day and trust that her healing heart will guide her.

living in a world of opposite assumption

liz lamoreux

Hippopposites

hippopposites . a new favorite book around here

There are a lot of “take-aways” (a word I heard often this weekend) from the World Domination Summit I attended in Portland. I was so moved by the speakers and their messages and the people I met, reconnected with, and hugged for the first time in person that I plan to share some thoughts over several posts as I continue to unpack my experience and take in my notes. Oh and if you aren’t familiar with WDS, I love my (new) friend Rebecca’s definition: A community of adventurers who want to rock on and be of service.

Yes, there is so much to tell you. I want to share about charitywater.org and how following your passion might not always be the best first step and about what it felt like to be part of a group of 1000 people singing and dancing to Journey (thanks to Brene Brown) and have you heard…ah…we were each given $100. As in a $100 bill to take out into the world and invest in something good. For reals. Yep. More on that later this week (and you can just google it too).

And while I am still doing all this unpacking, I am really moved to share something else because this feels like a conversation that needs to be had…that I need to part of.

In fact, it is a conversation I’ve been wanting to have for a long time, and I feel a bit vulnerable in sharing it as in some ways it feels trite after the bigness and awesomeness that went on this weekend. But I think it is something that should be put out there, especially because it can be a huge hurdle to, well, just showing up and being yourself.

The conversation I want to begin is about how we so often assume opposites.

It became something I kept thinking about perhaps because it simply comes up when people gather, perhaps because it touches on vulnerability, which was an overarching theme of the weekend after Brene opened the summit and we found ourselves chatting a lot about introverts and extroverts and if we are willing to be vulnerable enough to put our beliefs into the world.

Let me give you an example of what I mean by opposite assumption. Smiling my very big “yes you can see all my teeth and my gums” smile used to be the way I dealt with being very nervous and overwhelmed. If inside I was feeling like I wanted to run away, outside I was standing alone smiling hoping someone would like me. During the first few weeks of my first year at boarding school, a friend of a friend of a friend told my roommate that an upperclassman girl wanted to “kick my ass” because I was “too damn happy.” In truth, I called my mom every night crying wanting to go home.

But here is a more recent less dramatic example. At one of the retreats during the past year, I was having a delightful “laugh out loud and then cry through tears” conversation with one of the participants. She suddenly said with exuberance, “You are a lot more fun than you seem online.”

It is important to note that I was not offended when this was said to me; in fact, I loved that she said it because it didn't trigger me but three years ago it would have. I nodded because I know that my online “be present, be here” persona doesn't always come across as fun. Mainly because when I come to the page, like today, I am trying to untangle from thoughts whirling in my mind. And these thoughts are often around “serious” themes.

I also wasn't at all offended when she said it because this is what I know: One of my superhero powers is taking things seriously.

The big smile I wore so often through my teens and twenties was in sharp contrast to the way many people would say, “Why do you take things so seriously?” or “You are so serious.” In fact, someone even elbowed me during an Indigo Girls concert during the line “I’m not making a joke, you know me. I take everything so seriously” from “Galileo.”

Whenever things like this were said, I would immediately assume that this meant I wasn’t any fun, that I had no sense of humor, that they thought I was unhappy, that they were trying to tell me people didn’t like me. But the truth is serious things happen to people, and from a young age, I think I really got this on a cellular level. And my seriousness was a trigger for others sometimes. 

In the last two years, I finally began to own this as a superhero power because I recognized that part of my work in the world is to gather women together in person and online and create safe places for them to show up as themselves and share their stories. And if I didn’t have a feel for how serious this is, it would be almost impossible to create this safe space.

Now I can sometimes hear people audibly sigh with relief when they get this "serious" piece about me because they know they can just tell their story without worrying about censoring themselves.

But being serious doesn’t mean I’m not fun. My close friends know that I am actually quite funny and love to be a bit silly too. I think anyone who has attended my retreats will tell you we do a lot of laughing and I almost always dance while singing along with Tina Turner and Michael Franti. There is a reason why participants call my retreats “soul parties.” 

Where is the take-away here? As I observed myself and others, I started to really think about my own assumptions in a new way. And I spent some time with how it feels to be on the receiving end of assumptions too.  

I believe we navigate the world through judgment. Happened to me Monday when I was basically stuck in a parking spot and had to inch out of it painfully. I was judging the room I had based on those tiny mirrors I was looking at with my tired eyes. I do the same with people. I see how they move through a moment and decide how to react based on what I see with those same tired eyes and what my past experiences have taught me. I assume. A lot.

But after being confronted with the way I judge through assumption in person (and more often how I judge people through online observation alone where they are just showing one slice of themselves at a time and how I am judged in this same way), I want to push myself to stop assuming through the lens of opposites.

If I didn’t talk to you this weekend or text to invite you to lunch or introduce myself with a huge smile on my face or even introduce myself at all, it’s because I was sweating through my clothes (it was hot in Portland) while confronting a lot of my own assumptions about myself.

I want to spend more time thinking about and writing about opposites and how they are important and powerful, especially in creative work, but also how they can push us to make assumptions that might not be true and perhaps never are.

What do you think? I’d love to make this a conversation if you’d like to join me.