The Next Big Thing

I knew at a young age that my bones, brain, and heart had been crafted in such a way that I was meant to help people. When my grandmother cooked chili and grilled cheese for dinner, I wanted to set the table. When my teacher had a stack of papers to grade, I wanted to make sure she had a full set of pens. When my teammate was hurt, I was first to make sure she had the proper medical equipment or medicines. More than just action, I knew and believed in the power of asking questions and helping people through conversation and dialogue.

It was here where I felt most energized.

This deeply earnest part of me was like a seed that grew (and grew) as I got older. Helping in many ways, became a way that I felt most apt in communicating love.

And yet, growing up becomes more complicated. As I ventured into my teens, and young adulthood, I had to learn the necessary (but at times painful) process of also accepting, receiving, and engaging with help. I had to learn to ask for it, and I had to learn that it was healthy to acquiesce to it. Being helpful certainly doesn’t make you invincible. When I was stranded, someone always showed up. When I needed extra money, a check always came my way. When I was sick, someone always filled in as my caretaker. When I was heartbroken, someone was there to rub my back.

At 29, I recognize fully that there is no way anyone can do this – life – alone.

We need each other.

By knowing the power of relying on one another, I have been able to find a great deal of healing from pain in my past. Healing, I know now, requires us often to go back to places of suffering. Instead of pushing against my own feelings, reflections, or experiences, I have chosen them. I have acknowledged them. I have reconciled with them.

This has been grueling, and it has not come quick or fast. Yet, through this process, I know that I can now fully, authentically, genuinely help others. This realization has been life-changing for me – now, I know that I’m ready to take the next step in my professional life because of the work I have done in my personal life.

Often, the notion of my career has included education and advocacy for people who need it the most. Now, knowing what I know, and believing what I do, I am pursuing to be a Licensed Professional Counselor through the School of Education & Human Development at the University of Colorado Denver. Because I do love helping, and because I love people, I would like to apply my life experiences into a professional path that creates access to healing for anyone – and everyone. For the next 3 years, I will be training with other Counseling candidates to become certified and work on behalf of those needing mental health services.

The University of Colorado Denver is unique in how they structure the Counseling program; with multiculturalism, diversity, and inclusion at its core, all of the methodologies, theories, and therapies that I will be learning will hold tightly to these values. I will learn how to be not only a counselor, but a counselor that has to consider privilege, difference, and oppression as we work for social justice. Our world needs this.

I want to be a counselor because I want to help people understand their lives better, to know themselves, and most importantly, to know they matter and that healing is possible. I want to be a counselor because I believe that this service is too often inaccessible for many people in our society. I want to equip individuals with the mental help and wellness they may need. Whether it’s refugees, the elderly, or LGBTQ+ people, I want to be a part of a movement that brings mental health services to ALL.

I want to create a safe space – even if it is the smallest of spaces.

Becoming a counselor has been a dream of mine for many years. And yet, it has never been the right time. Other things were in the way, I had too much to work through, or I was abroad. They say timing is everything – and they’re right. Now, it is the right time, and I am beginning a path that will not only fulfill a professional desire, but a personal one, too.

I will help people, and in turn, I recognize they will help me too.

Here’s to the next big thing, with lots of dreams, love, work, hope, and papers. Always papers. This new journey begins on January 17th, and likely will take 3 – 3 ½ years to complete.

I’m in it for the long haul and truly, I can’t wait to get started.

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Onward & Upward

Driving to the Denver Coliseum last week, on a Friday mid-afternoon, I found myself nervous, giddy, proud, and ecstatic all at once. Grandma, smiling with a dark red lipstick, was in the passenger seat as the soft sound of Google Maps ensured that I took the fastest route. We parked close to the old beige-colored building and were able to find the rest of my family waiting inside.

We – all of us – had gathered to witness something miraculously momentous.

My brother was graduating college. Lance – he did it!

The anticipation was palpable as the ceremony begun and the commencement speakers shared their keen words of wisdom. I was particularly inspired after hearing from Metro State’s current President, Janine Davidson, who formerly served as an undersecretary for the U.S. Navy, among other high-level leadership positions in the Pentagon (um, so cool). She acknowledged that for many students, the path to success is not linear – it’s bumpy and windy, and often, ends up in places that we couldn’t necessarily expect. She shared that the youngest graduate from the December 2017 class was in their twenties – the oldest, in their seventies. She noted that over 300 graduates were the first in their families to secure a degree. From anecdote, to fact, to story, she exemplified why graduations are important at all – and I couldn’t help but glance at Lance ever so often, remembering all that he has been through to get here.

Simultaneously, I sat next to (and at times, held) Kysyn and AnaLynah, my nephew and niece, encouraging them to cheer loudly when they heard their dad’s name. Eventually, he stood, and meandered toward stage in a slow-moving line.

Lance Taylor Newell.  

We cheered and clapped and smiled. Yes! It was happening.

You see, the path for my brother was not and has not been easy. He has had to overcome challenges that I could not dream of facing. And yet, he has survived.

I don’t say that lightly either; many times, especially while I was living abroad, I wondered if I would see him again. I feared that we would lose touch. That maybe, things would never get better. In my heart, I knew how badly he wanted a solid, strong future. But, ultimately, he was going to have to fight for it. He did – and he won.

As I heard my brother’s name called for completion of his Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology, I tried to freeze and capture the moment as best as I could. I looked around at our family, I gazed at him, and I held closely to my feelings of joy. I did not soon want to forget the rawness of miraculous joy. There really is no feeling like it.

A couple days later, at his graduation party, my mom and step-dad showed a slide show with pictures from many points in his life. From his teen years, from his time in sports, and even his earliest pictures, at just over 3 lbs, when he was still in the hospital. It was those pictures that made me weep; I have known Lance my entire life and for the duration of his life, he has been fighting. He has been brave. He has been resilient. He is not perfect – nor am I – but he’s done something that I hope he is proud of.

My biggest hope for him is that his story becomes one that he not only shares – but one that he can look back on and be proud of.

More people need to know that surviving (and thriving) is an option. More people need to know that overcoming addiction is possible. More people need to know that addressing mental illness is critical and necessary and NOT a weakness. And, more people need to know that it has been done.

My other biggest hope is that Lance can know deeply, and fully, how valued (and loved) he is. Though a diploma is a testament to one kind of success – it can never give a person the full value that they deserve.

Lance – wholly and completely himself – is worth gold. I have never been prouder and I simply cannot wait to see what is next on the horizon.

Sibling relationships are special – after all, at least for Lance and me, it’s the only kind of relationship where we’ve have shared so much of life at similar ages and at similar times. I used to say that Lance was my best friend. Though adult life has taken us to different places for different reasons, I still believe he is.

He knows me. He is my best friend.

And, he’s a newly graduated young man with so much ahead of him.

Onward and upward.

I Choose You

Like any refined, distilled whiskey, it takes time to process the really good, sweet stuff. That slow, aged flow is not unlike how we, as humans, process big changes in our lives, including milestones like graduation, sports victories, loss of loved ones, marriage, and new jobs. After all, I have often heard that in life we are guaranteed two things: change and taxes. Things will always change, and in turn, we will have to always adapt, pivot, and grow.

For the last week, I have been an engaged woman. Though this season is just a few days old, I can feel its importance and significance permeating all around me. I am preparing to commit my life to someone else, someone that I love deeply. That’s a huge deal.

Engagement has been an idea that Chelsea and I have been discussing for months. We have been together for over a year yet, in total transparency, I knew I wanted to marry her early into our relationship. There was something about her spirit, about her soul, that connected with mine. Early on, this was an intimate truth that I kept to myself until after we openly shared what was happening between us. While I do not believe in soul mates (at least in the traditional sense), our story unfolded in such a way that it felt like we were given a gift that we just kept saying “yes” to – again and again and again. I could not ignore the magnetism of our hearts – this was more than puppy love, fueled by amorous hormones. This was a deep knowing.

She was the woman I wanted and had dreamed for. Goofy, intelligent, driven, nerdy, patient, thoughtful, motivated, compassionate, faithful, self-aware, and also, just so beautiful in every way. Better yet, she has the best laugh of anyone I know. I genuinely believe that successful relationships hinge upon the presence of playfulness and laughter. She also holds a strong appreciation and love for books (especially from the library), God, nature, and creativity – much like I do. Confession: after a few weeks of dating, I checked my “list” of desirable qualities I wanted in a partner. She met every piece of criteria.

Much later, this past summer, we had a surprising but open conversation about where we were headed. Mutually, together, we decided that we wanted to share and do life together – always. Engagement was on the docket.

One of the (many) lovely things about being in a same sex relationship is that inherently, we are able to rethink tradition. This is not to say there is not a place for tradition, but instead, we are able to forge a path that does not follow one particular model. We can bring a newness to what commitment looks like, while still acknowledging that tradition can always be a part of the story. Originally, we discussed doing two proposals within a short time frame. We both felt it was important to ask and accept. However, by putting them close together, the mystery of when is lost. So, we decided instead I would ask first (in 2017), Chelsea would ask second (in 2018), and then we could begin planning for a summer 2019 wedding.

Never one to hold back, I initiated the planning process for a proposal for Chelsea quickly after this conversation, including the purchase of the ring. We had already gone together, with her mother, to pick out our designs, and because Chelsea’s ring was a custom make, it would need extra time to be created.

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As I began to plan for what proposing to Chelsea would look like, there were several priority areas that I wanted to honor throughout the process:

  1. Pray fervently and often. For so long, the idea of commitment (marriage or otherwise) felt out of reach. Now, a close, tangible reality, I wanted to prepare my heart in every way that I could to make sure that I was as ready as I could be to take the next step. I do not think you can ever be perfectly ready, but I do think you can prepare and reflect on what these big changes mean for your life and who you are.
  2. Include Chelseas family and friends. Asking for Chelsea’s parents’ blessing was never a choice in my plan. I recognized that being with Chelsea is an honor and I wanted her parents to know that I took that seriously. Moreover, a major part of Chelsea’s journey has been the unyielding love and support from her friends. I wanted all of that love in her life to be present when I asked her to marry me.
  3. Create a space for authenticity, intentionality, and thoughtfulness. I did not want to ask Chelsea to be my wife in a showy, over-the-top manner. I wanted every piece of it to mean something special and to show her how much she means to me.

Taking these into account, I aimed to pop the question around our 1-year anniversary (October 30th). As I brainstormed, San Francisco came to my mind repeatedly. This was a destination we both had expressed a lot of interest in visiting – so why not go all out for such a momentous celebration in our lives? Certainly, more questions followed: Should I propose there? When would we go? What would she want to do while we were there? How could I keep this a secret?

I knew if we went to San Francisco, she would anticipate a proposal during the trip. Let’s be real, it would be pretty obvious. Thus, it had to happen before. I booked plane tickets for our anniversary and planned to ask on the day prior to our getaway: Friday, October 27th. I found out later that this was also the same day of my graduate school interview (naturally). It would be (and was) one of the most intense days of my life.

As summer turned into fall, I had a date for the big day, and I had a celebration, too. However, I still needed to fine-tune exactly how the proposal would happen. I mused over countless possibilities. As the plan came to life, I knew unswervingly that I wanted to write something to Chelsea. Writing is an important part of who I am, and how I express myself. I began to draft versions of what I wanted to say. There were so many drafts that I was filling pages and pages of thoughts in my notebook. In that process, I fathomed how hard it was to find the words for something so potent, powerful, and moving.

In the end, because she had to work late on that Friday, I asked her at our home – which led me to transform our space into something romantic, calming, and intimate. On the night of the proposal, while she worked, I prepared everything. I lit the candles, I bought the flowers, and finalized a playlist that would play when she arrived home, beginning with our song, I Choose You” by Sara Bareilles. On the door, I left a sign that said, “read the card before entering” which had directions for her to leave all of her items near the front and to take deep breaths as she entered our home.

Engagement 1

When she opened the door, she saw hundreds of tea light candles (because, literally, there were 200). On our dining room table, she saw printed photographs and all of the wine corks we have saved in the first year of our relationship (yes, we love red wine). All over the table I spread colorful confetti, because if you know Chelsea, you know she loves colors.

Engagement 2

On the floor, I made a path of petals for her to follow.

On the second table, in our living room, Dove Dark Chocolates (yum) were placed all over, with more confetti, and a card that said on the front, “I cant wait to marry you.” Also on the table, I left printed tickets for our trip to California. Finally, she would know!

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As she discovered these items late into the evening, I heard her softly cry as she took in all that was unfolding. When I heard her weep, it took everything in me not to also sob loudly. However, I was waiting in the next room, and my heart was beating heavy, wanting to hold onto the moment to come.

The final sign in the living room said, Ready?” and when she was, she would come and find me.

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She turned the corner and there I was, waiting for her with candles, wine, cards from friends and family, and of course, the ring. We embraced and held each other as tears fell from both of our eyes. It was surreal and emotional. I asked gently, “are you ready for this?” and led her to the couch. We sat on our grey futon and I read her the most important letter I have ever written to anyone.

Dear Chelsea, my beloved,  

Its you. When we jumped in this together, a year ago, I could not have imagined where the journey would take us.

Darling, with you, we have celebrated and cried; laughed and wept; rollerbladed and walked throughout Denver. As days, weeks, and months have passed we have slowly, but intentionally carved out our life together.

Life with you is abundant in joy. Life with you is miraculously astounding. Life with you is what I have been hoping and wishing for.

When, a year ago, you told me that you liked me, I panicked.

Am I ready?

Should I really take this risk?

How do I know if I am ready for this? 

I was scared. I was afraid of loving, but also, what it would mean to really, wholly, authentically be myself.

 I took the risk because I trusted you. In turn, with you, I have known the deepest joy I have ever felt.

You see me. You know me. You celebrate me. We are dorks and yet dreamers. We are grounded and yet goofy. When I finish the day, there is no one I would rather hold. Forever, I will hold our walks in Wash Park, our shared meals, our travels, our reading in bed, our long talks, and our mutual affinity for ice cream close.  

This year has been peppered with many memories that build the foundation for who we are and who we will be.

I adore you. Your laugh makes me weak at the knees. Your smile reminds me of safety. With you, I know I am home. With all that I am, I cannot wait to continue our story together.

Today is the day! It is the day where I can in complete, total confidence declare that I choose you. It is you, Chelsea.

Come with me to San Francisco and lets celebrate the most profound, surprising, and special piece of our lives our love. And forever, darling, will you marry me and be my wife?

At the end, I got down on one knee to ask if she would marry me.

She said, “yes!”

We held each other again and confidently, I placed her ring on her finger. We did it.

The ring is stunning; it includes a diamond from her mother, as well as smaller diamonds from her late stepmother, all of which made the moment even sweeter. We took it all in. We sipped celebratory wine. We read beautifully kind cards from loved ones. We packed. It all felt like a dream – and it still does.

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My life with Chelsea will be many things – exciting, fun, empowering, and meaningful. She is the love of my life. I choose her. She chooses me. And we have only just begun.

I am in awe of her, of this, and the pure, deepening act of partnering with another human. Together, we will face the world with boldness, compassion, and love. Together, we can write our own story. Still, Chelsea does not complete me. I am enough all on my own. And yet, in my darkest of times, I doubted everything about myself. I wondered if I could ever love like this. I wondered if I would ever be enough.

Chelsea’s love lets me fully shine. If that isn’t true love, I don’t know what is.

dancing grief

Hair, deeply rooted, still changes.

Vivid brown roots transform to sparkling grey;

Your skin, still so elegant, keeps a smooth terrain, like soft plaster.

Green iris eyes hold a conglomerate of sights seen, loves lost, and hopes deferred.

The life you have lived oozes from your pores;

You, though aging, have really, wholly –

Lived.

We all age.

Our hair may hold no secrets but our hearts, pulled with depth and certainty into our chest are the keepers of our souls.

Here, you find the tender touches of your children, the dreams unlocked, and the forgotten pain that no one sees. Here you keep surprise birthdays, the taste of vanilla bean ice cream, and the pleasures of a walk outdoors after a long spring sun-shower.

Blossoming youth become sophisticated adults become seasoned senior citizens until we are “old” – 

And then –

Like a deadline, we ignore its looming until –

it arrives.

In death, we lose treasures:

stories told and untold;

loves revealed and unrevealed;

recipes cooked and uncooked.

A photograph does not contain your spirit.

A story, even with energy, grows old.

Herein lies grief.

Our powerlessness.

Our sadness.

Our nostalgia.

Grief upon grief dances together, lies together, tarnishing the vivid array of color we once held. We weep, we weep, and we are afraid it will never stop.

Never what we had will be again. And yet. We live on.

We carry you.

We remember you.

We give to our lives the way you gave,

knowing mysteriously and gracefully that it passes on.

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when education is not enough.

I come from a family built solidly and firmly on the bedrock of education. Becoming an educator is a source of deep pride; my father, for example, attended Overland High School in Aurora, Colorado (a member of the first graduating class) and after receiving his education license during his undergraduate studies, he returned to Overland to teach and has been there ever since.

For nearly 30 years, my father has been teaching a diverse, multi-cultural student body in geography, history, and social studies. Much of his life has been formed within the confines of a classroom, and honestly, I think it’s super badass. He’s inspired me to know the incredible gift that education holds.

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That matters because I grew up noticing and observing and then believing that education was the tool. For me, it was. I attended school systems with resources, qualified teachers, and supportive add-ons to enable the highest student potential to be met. This extended into college too, as if education was assumed to always be present and existent in my life.

So, remaining always enthusiastic to the process of education, I am faced with a deeply important and stark question: what happens when education is not enough?

Kigali, Rwanda

Inside a thick-aired upper room of a small alimentation in Kimironko, Kigali (towards the east side of town) I sat together with a Rwandan student of mine of whom I have known for six years. I hadn’t seen her since my last work trip to the country (in late 2015) and so she updated me, slowly and meaningfully, on each fragment of her life. I leaned in, listening, hanging on every word, wanting to know exactly what was happening.

With bread and fanta on the table, she chewed and sipped and told me everything.

Her mom is sick. Gravely ill. I try to imagine her lively, energetic mother withdrawn and in pain. It’s agonizing, honestly, to even imagine. This student does not have a father – her mother is her only parent. She confesses a fear of what happens if her mother dies. It will be okay, I tell her. But, really? Will it?

Her older sister, in pursuit of a job, left for Kenya without telling anyone in her family. Her family is devastated. They are waiting, hoping she will return.

Her younger sister passed the national exam last year and was selected to a reputable school two hours away from their community. They could not afford the school fees, so instead, she is attending a school that requires a 90-minute walk each day, one-way trip. The school’s education is sub-par and so, she fears that her sister will retain little, and perhaps be confined to the fields for farming for the rest of her life.

This student has the same concerns for herself; she graduated secondary school last year (a major accomplishment) but now, without an accessible (or even permeable) job market in her rural community, she feels stuck, isolated, and alone. Her fear, in addition to being single, is how she could possibly support her family without finding a job.

As she tells her story, I listen. As I listen, the same question repeats itself. This is a girl who did everything “right.” She studied hard, got good grades, and yet still, remains stuck.

How does she get out?

That’s the question, and it’s one that I cannot shake.

As she confesses all of things before me, her throat tightens as she does her best to not cry. Crying in public is quite taboo in Rwanda, and she knows this as much as anyone else. I give her a few minutes to hold it together, reminding her that I’m there for her, and with her. She is stressed and rightfully so; she worked for the last six years (even coming back to school after her father’s death so she could make a life for herself) and now this?

Now what?

How do we fill this gap?

Certainly, that’s the root of the model with my work with TWB: we seek to provide a tangible, realistic, and powerful application for an educational foundation. Yet, our program hasn’t yet reached this young woman – nor has it for all the women in Rwanda (and around the world) that enter the sphere of education but fall short when it comes to applying it. Herein lies privilege – yes, privilege, that uncomfortable elephant in the room of a word where we confront what others have (or do not have) and try to understand how we leverage our own existing mobility.

This student of mine is currently immobile – at least in an opportunistic sense.

For now, I have encouraged her to join other girls that I have supported to map out “next steps” especially as it relates to community-based solutions that would enable her to continue to take care of her family. Whether a small business (of tutoring in English for example) or seeking out educator jobs, I have instilled the hope that she can seek with diligence and confidence. She has something to offer the world and my god, she will offer it.

Yet, even in these small actions that work for a better future, we must take a larger step back and think about the education systems we promote and the larger systems of society they exist within. The strongest education, I believe, is one that is experiential and applicable. Learning can be done for learning’s sake, but it also must allow the learner to build capacity to leverage their own work ethic, knowledge, and potential for a better life.

What if we could re-work our systems and integrate the job market with what we are teaching? What if instead of teaching rote memorization skills, we built a curriculum that was alive, active and channeling participants directly into a trajectory? What if, instead of de-funding our entire system, we invested in it and compensated teachers for the value that they are worth?

I don’t have an answer for these questions, thought I genuinely, authentically wish that I did.

What are your thoughts?

How can we address the gap of education and income security?

How do we protect those, especially women, who are left with limited opportunities and yet incredible, limitless, budding possibility?

These are hard, awkward questions.

But until we ask them, we cannot discover and work through possible solutions. Let’s begin the conversation together. Let’s do this together. Let’s make education work for everyone. And I do mean, everyone.

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bye (for now)

Hi there.

This morning I took a walk in the Seattle-esque damp mist and watched moms, dads, babysitters, grandmas, and neighborhood friends in black mini vans drop their little kiddos off for school. I remember that distinctive feeling of finishing up with school. Summer is upon you, yearbooks are being distributed, and pools are opening up. They say Christmas is the most wonderful time of year. I, however, would contest that the beginning of summer holds itself as pretty stiff competition.

Strangely, I’m headed off to school today too. Kind of. I’m beginning a two-month training that I’ve written about the last few months; sometimes I’ve posted my fundraising link, other times I’ve referenced the reasons I want to do this thing anyway.

Today, I simply want to say thank you. They are simple words. I do mean them, though.

As my heart orients closer and closer to God, I find more and more

peace, humility, and acceptance.

I didn’t write “happiness”, you know. For so long, I have chased happiness as the indicator of life’s temperature, and for me, for us, friends, I think we can measure with completely different tools. It’s like measuring baking soda with tablespoons (big T) instead of teaspoons (little t).

God doesn’t promise happiness. He promises something greater,

“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.” Jeremiah 29:11.

My friend Matt wrote this verse on the back of an envelope that he gave me at a quietly filled Starbucks, just a couple of weeks ago. When I opened the card, I was careful to rip the back softly. I put the piece of paper in my Bible and it’s coming with me for the next couple of months.

God promises goodness. Inherent in life is difficulty, pain, and sadness. But how we overcome those things – through God’s grace – is our access point to greater goodness. Not happiness. Happiness is a fabrication of our doing; goodness is a gift given. I am finally ready to accept that gift.

So what’s that mean for all of this?

Well, I’m going through this “training” for practical purposes (learning intricately what it means to follow Jesus, about God’s plan for us, and an opportunity to study more intimately the Bible itself), for spiritual strengthening (namely working alongside a mentor and developing a committed prayer life), and for real commitment to taking part in the kind of love Jesus talks about (missions or not).

It’s going to be an intense 2-months that will take me through classrooms, churches, mountains, foreign countries, other cities, and to places still unknown. It’s 58 days full-time; I won’t be going home and I won’t be spending much time in the communications & social media world. Yes, that means a blogging break. But, I think that’s important; I’ll be doing most of my writing in my numerous and vast notebooks, processing “The Experience” as it goes along. I can’t wait to share all that’s learned when I come back.

Which brings me to my next thing.

I’ll likely be headed to Rwanda & Tanzania late this summer for 3-ish months (until late October) to begin field training with The Women’s Bakery as I take on my new role within the organization. Following my time in East Africa, I will be working primarily from my home base in Colorado. Wow. What a blessing to have a job to come home to; this alone will allow me to even more intensely focus on this impending ministry training. God is so good.

So, as usual, I don’t really know everything that God has in store. He’s doing some crazy things. Just yesterday, I felt like He was answering a good bulk of my prayers that have been left looming for months prior. I called Rachel and was just like, “what the what what what???????????”. Or something like that.

Anyway, just know I’ll be back. Whether I’m writing state-side, ministry-side, or Rwanda-side, I guarantee this: I’ll be writing. And giving thanks.

Thanks y’all.

*

write.

Fancy permulate brilliant delicious ideas.

Chemo letter to my lover anything and everything.

Columbine shooting Boulder breaking through sizzling.

*

These are the words humming in the room just off of Colfax and Race Streets in the Milheim House (built in 1893) where I’m attending my first workshop, class, session – whatever you want to call it – to pursue writing.

Well, pursue writing at least a little more seriously.

I have all these journals and all these ideas and all these stories and all these people are sitting around the table and I’m thinking,

WHAT…? What am I doing?

Here in our classroom, we have ski instructors from Boulder, noteworthy people known for historical Colorado events, comedians, travelers, and a professor who is a trained writing therapist. Most excellent.

But in all seriousness, I put on a bold face because hey, I’m here to write, and if I really believe we all have stories worth sharing I might as well just hit the ground running.

I realize quickly what it is I want to write. What I deeply yearn to share about, to express, to reveal, and what’s important is that our teacher presses further.

Why don’t you write?

The honest answer, for me, was true on both sides of the equation (why I love writing and why sometimes I refuse to altogether):

ADMITTING TRUTH.

I write because it’s the one place I feel safe to do so, and I refuse to write for the very same reason.

It’s scary to sit in a chair, with your pen and paper, and realize all of the tools sitting in front of you.

Yet, our teacher is attune to this – having experience in creative writing for years and years – and so she doesn’t let us simply escape this tension. We must call it for what it is.

*

After an hour of a couple of writing exercises and setting the format for the 4-week class, we address the battle of the “inner critic”. One woman calls it her, “inner bitch” and what I found interesting is that in a variety of contexts, we have a different name for the very thing that speaks hate into our lives.

It could be evil, negativity, self-loathing, the inner critic, doubt, or Satan himself, but it’s all there.

In writing, you might hear things like, “it’s been written before” or “really, writing? You think that’s a worthy pursuit?”

In my own exercise, I mapped out my conversation with my inner critic like this:

Heather: “It’s time. The story has already begun, and let’s be real, has never really closed – what if I just start to capture what that love meant?” 

Inner Critic: “Oh okay. So, sit down. Flounder around with your tales of fetching water and banana trees. You have a blog full of those damn stories and they are getting old. Where is your new material?” 

Heather: “You and I both know there’s a kind of process and storyline that has been left unwritten. Intentionally. Let’s go! Let’s shatter that fear and just write.” 

Inner Critic: “How can you pretend that you’ll even remember the slightest details – the ones that will actually make the story meaningful? The ones that will help you even remember tell it at all?” 

Heather: “I’ll take the very approach I took when I experienced it myself. I figured it out as I went along. And guess what? I still don’t have it all figured out – but there’s a certain release of that in writing. That’s what I want to choose. That kind of acceptance. In who I am as a writer. Someone who is honest.

Inner Critic: “Good luck with that.”

Heather: “You can sit over there when freedom, clarity, and depth come to service. Those boxes of journals that sit in my room? Those memories? Those ticket stubs of moto rides, international packages, and plane tickets? The letters? They meant something. They still do. They will be a weapon to destroy you. The catalyst to action. The reason I lift my story to a place of confidence, worth being shared. The experience will be enough to move past the brokenness you so deeply want to maintain.”

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We don’t write for a lot of reasons. A lot of it has to do with fear, self-doubt, and a number of excuses that seem good enough. Tori Morrison herself said that she was often afraid to write her first sentence in any of her works because she was so concerned that the novel wouldn’t become the novel that she had dreamed it to be.

Towards the end of today’s session we had to share two things with the class:

  1. One thing that you learned about yourself as a writer, &
  2. A small writing goal that you are committing yourself to.

For the first point, I realized that I have hung on this “balance beam” of wanting to commit to writing – or not. I no longer want to be there, I want to be all in. I want to do this.

For the second, I am going to be reading through a couple of my journals a week and begin to pull ideas for what it is that I want to write. 2 journals per week will take me some time to work through, but I’m confident that much of the material is already there. Thank goodness for being an obsessive journaler.

The challenge is evolving from that – applying it.

*

I walked out of class with a girl who was quick to ask a few questions about some of the things I had said. I didn’t know why until she talked about being involved with ministry, dealing with a struggle that I mentioned during the session, and also living and serving in Romania for well over 2 years. I hastily said, “ah! Are you a Christian?” And she was, and I am, and as it turns out, so is our workshop teacher. Our teacher came from behind with open arms and simply gushed, “I knew you both were believers.”

Really?

Um, hello, parallels.

I want to know more, but I’ll have to wait until next week.

Until then, I’ll be practicing, doing these exercises, reading my journals, and maybe finally starting to take the leap into a different kind of approach to my writing.

Let’s see what happens.

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