Grace has arrived…

A sure sign that healing takes its own sweet time but when it’s time to start blooming again the colors are deeper, richer, and more vibrant. Life resumes, sounds float effortlessly into my consciousness and my senses slowly return. The tear in my heart has been re-stitched and the tapestry that is me, moves to incorporate this fissure and make it part of the mosaic that is my life. I am not whole but I am no longer ripped asunder. Grace has arrived.

 

 

 

Wandering…

I took a long leisurely meandering drive with one of my best friends.

We had no destination in mind and we found ourselves in a small town with historic homes, barns and mysterious winding roads sumptuous and beckoning.

We couldn’t resist….

Long and winding road..

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Happy Mother’s Day!

Motherhood is a tricky taskmaster! How can 2 little boys evoke so many emotions in one timeless, sometimes endless moment?!

My heart has increased in capacity a trillion-fold and at times so has my exasperation. I mean how many times can you say, “did you brush your teeth?” No really, with an actual toothbrush And toothpaste And water?”

You’ve discovered you’ve raised litigators far better than any seasoned attorneys on tv and in real life. How else could you end up in a never-ending, circuitous and mind numbing discussion about what I actually meant when I said cleanup your room, are you ready for bed, did you pack completely for the game, or my favorite, are you all set for school? 

Cue, the eye roll and the exhaustive sigh…why must they have to go through all of this when all they want to do is….well anything else but listen to me nag? I mean sure heading out to the game with your cleats nestled snugly by the front door so you wouldn’t forget them, but you did. Or dashing out the door with the infamous, “I got it Mom you don’t have to remind me.” Now cue my eye roll.

It is the paradox of motherhood that just when I’ve had enough and have struggled to overcome my overwhelming need to hurl myself shrieking and cursing off the deck, these incredible, loving, funny, compassionate boys curl up next to me, rest they’re heads on my shoulder and whisper “I love you to the moon and back Mommy,” and all is momentarily forgotten. The slate is clean and fresh and my heart soars and swells with unconditional, unceasing, and unrelenting joy. I am humbled and awed by the amount of love I feel for these two extraordinary children that God has knowingly placed in my everlasting care. 

I am blessed to be their mother and every breath I take ends in a silent prayer that they be healthy, happy and know they are loved. I have done my very best in being their Mother and though there are days I knock it out of the park, there are other days I pray my children forgive me for missing the highest mark. 

To my incredible mother, thank you for showing me how to travel this journey we call life and for being a remarkable example of grace, resilience, determination, growth, forgiveness, joy, sorrow and love. Happy Mother’s Day.

Wild Moon…

“Wild Moon Woman

You were not made to be tamed.

You are an earthquake shaking loose

everything that is not Soul.

Shake Woman Shake!!” elyse morgan

     imageedit_9_2721769336                                             My photos of the Lunar eclipse. 

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In the Presence of Writers

This fall I took a writing workshop on Martha’s Vineyard with the legendary, Nancy Aronie, who I have deemed a “Literary Guru”. As a writing teacher she moves fluidly, dancing gracefully through her life, sorrows, pain, and joy in such a way that it invites and inspires her writers to do the same. Nancy has the uncanny ability to create the space that allows each writer to submerge themselves in their memories, dreams, disillusionment, and prayers to evoke words, prose, and stories that made me weep, laugh, and applaud with astonishment and joy. Nancy creates a safe place for each writer to slowly shed their cocoon and emerge into the brightly beautiful butterflies we are constantly struggling to become. She allows us to become the writers we have each longed to become. Every day each person was required to write from one of Nancy’s daily prompts and no one disappointed, although collectively we bemoaned, “what would we say? Could we even write about ‘that’?” “Am I even doing this right?”.

These amazing writers showed up with their humor, their heartbreak, their tragedies and they wove a web of stories that enthralled and entranced everyone within earshot. As the rain steadily pounded the studio’s windows, these unique voices, shared their eloquent prose, poetry and purpose. They told stories that made me feel honored to have sat among the last vestiges of  fall’s, leaf-colored, canopy, in the in bleak ending of November and weep with unabashed abandonment. Tissues were quietly passed from person to person as we heard stories of suffering, and so much sadness that people have endured in their lives and have lived to tell about it. Each testimonial and written word was as individual as the writer but the collective experience of being human beings trying to navigate the morass of our own childhoods, teenage angst, and adult lives made me long to comfort them in some way. The best thing I could do was to sit silently, breathe deeply and bear witness to their incredible stories and then applaud like I was at a rock concert when they were finished.

You could hear a pin drop as each one of us were preparing to read our words, tell our stories and share our hopes and dreams and often revisit the very pain that had brought us there. Each voice was as distinctive as the writer. There was a richness, a catch in their throat honesty and the willingness to endure, that allowed us to be  swept away into their worlds and into their shared moments of dreams, triumphs, successes and sorrow. At the beginning of each class I was sure that we had heard the best writing and then I would be lulled, lead, and laden anew with fresh tears as even deeper stories emerged and these brave souls bared their spirits and shared their lives with such courage, writers who were strangers to me no more.

All writers were funny, raw, theatrical, heartsick, loving, imaginative, vulnerable and unflinchingly truth tellers who sat in a sacred circle and bared their underbellies for the rest of us to see. What I heard was a cacophony of vibrant voices, experiences, and writing styles, but these were WRITERS, true artists. No one else could have told their stories and shared them with 23 strangers with such rawness, profound honesty, honor and grace. Each voice, each piece was an expression of what that writer brought to the group and it could not be duplicated by anyone else. That is what being a writer is about, I suppose. Telling a story that only you know the intimate details of and making us see, feel, and step back into the piece with the same clarity and tangible, tactile feelings that the writer sees in their mind’s eye. It is the ability to draw other people along, to envision your steps, your views and your emotions that makes someone a talented writer and an artist.

As I sat listening, laughing, and languishing in empathy, sympathy, and pain, I realized, this is writing. Each person is responsible for telling their story, their way, with no apologies. Each writer’s words and voice lent itself to the story being told and on some days I wondered how it is that we have all survived. If you’re a writer, you put the pain, sorrow, and longing on the page and you tell your story because invariably the other people reading or listening are sharing in the triumphs and losses, just as your exquisitely chosen words intended to convey. It’s like writing music, the tempo, the melody and the visionary, inextricable placement of each word delivers the listener to another world, another layer, where you are the star and we are the audience, there unseen, unknowing, and unaware of where this beautiful song will lead.

I have been changed by this class and as my favorite quote reminds me, “When I move, Providence moves with me.” Stay tuned as I write about the other revelations that have emerged from this one simple act of stepping out on faith. It turns out, getting out of my comfort zone, challenging myself, and standing in the presence of greatness allowed me to find a bit of my own greatness amidst the crowd of writers that I now call friends.

#writers, #gratitude #inspiring